


Where the Blood Still Seeps

by shadesfalcon



Series: Stockholm Syndrome [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (But Mostly Angst), ...mostly, Alternate Universe, Angst, BDSM, Bondage, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Conditioning, Dom Clint Barton, Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff, Original Character(s), Plot, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Safewords, Sexual Abuse, Some of the avengers get brought into the fold, Spies & Secret Agents, Sub Natasha Romanov, Swearing, Torture, Violence, but there are canon liberties, sexual exploitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 73,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2774660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesfalcon/pseuds/shadesfalcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2335049/chapters/5145716">To Each His Own,</a> which I recommend be read first. (But hey, no pressure.)<br/>Clint and Natasha’s relationship struggles along within its lopsided power system. The same tactics they’d used when Natasha was psychologically conditioned to obey Clint’s every word aren’t going to work the same way now that she’s starting to heal. The two of them are going to have to decide exactly how much autonomy they want her to regain.<br/>Also some other Avengers show up, Nat makes friends, Clint thinks he’s funny, Nat’s a BAMF, and lots of people get shot at.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm trying an experiment where I post something before I've finished it. We'll see what happens.  
> As always, I'm over on [tumblr](http://polyamoryavengers.tumblr.com/) for those who want to say hi/make a suggestion/yell at me for not tagging a trigger.

The whole car was tense, and he had that feeling you get right before you throw up except it was all through his body. He held his seatbelt tight in front of him, both hands wrapped about the thick material. A quick glance to his right revealed Barney doing the same thing.

“Harold,” his mother soothed again. “I don’t mind driving.”

Clint clenched his eyes tight in anticipation of the viciousness that would follow, but what happened next wasn’t the type of violence he’d been expecting. There was a loud scream and hands thudded dully on glass in an attempt to stave off the inevitable.

For a moment, the radio was the loudest thing in the car. _I used to run the carousel. Hell, that’s just round and round._

Then the car was facing round the wrong direction, and Clint couldn’t hear the radio anymore. There were tires squealing and he couldn’t breathe from how hard the seatbelt choked him.

Glass shattered and then down was up. He dangled from the ceiling for a moment, and finally found his voice. He screamed, reaching out into thin air for Barney’s hand. Another jerk, and everything was still again, the car upside down. All the light were out, and it was quiet enough that Clint could have heard the radio again, if it had survived.

“Mom?”

Nothing.

“Dad?”

That time he heard Barney echoing him, and the relief was like a cold glass of water after you haven’t eaten anything in a long time. The two of them called out to their parents in the dark.

They learned later that they had both stopped screaming as soon as they were pulled from the wreckage. They learned that Clint had taken ahold of Barney’s sleeve and wouldn’t let go. They learned that Barney kept glancing back at Clint, to make sure he was there, regardless of the steady pressure at his coat. The learned Edith Barton had died on impact, and that Harold Barton lived long enough to regret the taste of alcohol on his breath.

When they got to the hospital, the two children sat still through the cacophonies of “miracle” and “so lucky.” Neither of them had had enough experience with luck or miracles to know enough to comment on the matter.

They did know that the one advantage to the new injuries was that they hid old ones. It was nice, for once, to not have to explain their bruises.

***

“What’s up, kid?”

Clint sighed. The most frustrating part of hiding was that Barney could always find him. Which meant that, if he didn’t crawl down from the bookshelf now, the other kids would see them talking, and that’d be one more hiding place that wouldn’t work anymore.

He peered over the edge, down at his brother. “How do you always know where to find me when the other kids can’t?”

“That’s because all the other kids start looking from bottom to top. So they get tired before they find you. I know to start at the top, and then keep looking at the top, because you’re there somewhere.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but kicked out over empty space and dropped lightly to the ground.

“You gonna tell me why you’re hiding?”

“You’re looking at me like you already know.”

“I’m your big brother. It’s my job to know stuff like this. Were you going to tell me? Because it was pretty rough hearing it firsthand from Tommy’s mouth.”

“It’s not a big deal. I know how to take a few punches.”

Barney took him roughly and shook him by his shoulders. “You can’t lose a single fight in a place like this! Do you think I taught you to fight for fun?”

“You taught me to fight because Dad-”

Barney continued talking over him until Clint gave up and fell silent again. “You _know_ this. Not one! Not without some retaliation. So I hope you weren’t planning on sleeping tonight, because we’ve got work to do.”

Which meant that night was filled with restlessness as everyone settled into bed. Barneys’ ideas were usually reckless, but this was something else. This was the kind of thing that could get them separated. Ms. Gabbler was always threatening them with that.

But what Barney said went. If Barney said they were going to have to traipse around the center in the middle of the night, then that’s what they were going to do. If Barney said that they were going to get revenge on Tommy, then that’s what they were going to do. His whole life had been a list of Barney’s plans, and it was hard to argue with success.

***

That night Clint was still startled by the gentle tap-tap-tap that meant his brother was up and roaming. Clint waited a moment, making sure the dull noise hadn’t woken anyone. Then, when nothing stirred, Clint slipped from his bed.

The cold air was nothing compared to the cold floor against his bare feet. He was going to have to remind Barney that they need socks, if they were going to last the winter. Getting anything in this place meant a fight with someone. Some were worth it, and some weren’t. Socks were definitely worth it.

He tried to keep his feet from making that sticking noise when they come off the floor, shifting his weight slowly, and soon enough he was out in the hall with his brother. They shadowed each other without speaking.

Clint didn’t ask where Barney got the key to the med kit, but he did feel a little bit sick when Barney started rifling through it.

“Are you sure about this?” It was the first sound either of them had made since the lights went out in the orphanage.

“You know how this works, by now. Lay down your first blow hard enough that you never have to land a second. Otherwise, it all ends in blood. Usually your own.”

A part of Clint wasn’t convinced, but the majority of him knew he should always trust his brother. Clint wasn’t the one who had pulled them through the hell that had been their life. Clint wasn’t the one had somehow charmed their way onto the Friday night movie list, even though both of them had too many demerits. Clint wasn’t the one who went hungry when there wasn’t enough.

Watching his brother sift through the various medications, there was no way he could have known that this would be his first kill.

***

_Tommy Staton is dying, and no one knows why._

The whispers raced through the orphanage and split their way into the minds of its residents. The whole building was waiting to see what the verdict would be on Tommy’s life.

Clint could already feel the answer. Something in the way the air hung in his bedroom. What had Barney fished from the box? It had been supposed to make the bully sick. Teach him that knocking down a Barton meant getting paid back. Maybe not in public, but soon.

Except Tommy had long ago passed “sick” and moved on into “deathly pale.” The doctors said it was only a matter of time. Barney had said the same thing, except he was referring to their fingerprints on the medicine box and their known vendetta with Tommy.

Clint wasn’t surprised when Barney murmured quietly, “We’ll have to leave tonight.”

Which they did, in the dead of winter, neither of them with socks. When they finally stumbled into the carnival, dark and closed down, they were delirious again. Clint was trying to figure out why he kept thinking about a seatbelt that bit too tight at the sound of crunching glass.

“Hey, Momma Bear!” The great voice would have startled them, if they hadn’t been too busy holding each other up. As it was, it just made them look around wearily.

“What are you yelling about at this hour?”

“Found a couple strays wandered onto the grounds.”

“Well throw something at them. I don’t see why you need to be yelling at me about it.”

“I don’t think so, Momma. It’s not that type of strays.”

***

Fifteen years old and sitting on top of the high wire platform, with his feet handing out over the edge, he was imagining throwing himself off. Everything was closed up for the night, and the net had been taken down.

He rejected the idea because he was too good, really, to fall to his death. He’d been trained how to fall from the start. Instead, he’d break an ankle and put himself out of commission. Might even break something bad enough that it wouldn’t heal. Make himself useless here in this world filled with rules about pulling your own weight.

Not that Clint had ever pulled his own weight. And nothing had made that more obvious than when he’d woken up that morning to find Barney had split in the night. He’d been saying weird stuff for a while, and Clint supposed he should have seen it coming.

Clint had known that the theft ring had made Barney an offer. He’d just assumed that Barney wouldn’t take it. Or, that he’d at least drag Clint along. He would have protested, but he’d have always followed his brother in the end.

Maybe that was why Barney had left him. It might have been cute when they were tiny, but a teenager following his older brother around? No wondered he’d bailed.

Clint surged to his feet and looked down at the tightrope. No net? No problem. Not everything in life needed backup.

Tentatively, he stepped out. He'd mastered the basic tightrope walk as a child, but he hadn't actually walked one in a long time. Hopefully it was like riding a bike. He shuffled on, savoring the cold air beneath him.

It was when he was half-way that he was struck with the overwhelming and painful desire to fight back. To live and make his own stupid decisions. He didn't need Barney.

The realization jolted adrenaline through his body, decreasing his sense of balance. He could feel himself shaking. He wobbled, made another step, wobbled again, and fell.

It was just a short rush of cold air before his fingers caught the thick wire. It dug deep into his hands at the sudden catch, and his own weight threatened to draw blood. He dangled for a moment, preparing to scream for help. Except...

What would they do? Get the net out? By the time they got it set up, he already would have fallen. Hell, he might have fallen by the time anyone even got there. He eyed the nearest platform.

Ok then.

He twisted his body up so his ankles wrapped around the wire and began his upside-down crawl toward his safety. Along the way, it struck him how idiotic he must look, hanging like a meal over a stereotypical cannibal cook fire. Shuffling along with a red face and purpling fingers.

By the time his hand touched the smooth wood, he was laughing so hard he’d almost fallen twice. He hoisted himself up, hysterical, and got to his feet. Standing shakily on the small platform, he screamed his victory into the dark.

Less than 48 hours later he accepted Trickshot’s offer to leave the carnival and start establishing themselves within the crime world. It wasn’t like there was anything holding him there anymore.

***

Internal bleeding.

The two words ran through his head, clamoring for attention that he couldn’t afford to give. Normally, he would have been more than happy to tend to his wounds. However, getting out of the chair he was cuffed to seemed a little more pressing.

His attention shifted once again when the cell’s door opened with a rasping clank of metal on concrete.

“Hey guys!” Clint greeted them jauntily. It didn’t come off like he’d been hoping, with the way he grunted painfully at the end.

“You ready to talk about your employer yet?” The question itself wasn’t so menacing, but Clint had learned better a long time ago. He eyed the hose one of the unnamed men was unrolling, and then the rag was over his face.

He made a brief effort to jerk his head around and break the grip of the man behind him, but quickly forced himself to breath slowly and shallowly. It was hard enough to get air through the thick weave of the fabric. Hopefully that would slow any water leaking through. Maybe these guys didn’t know what they were—

He jerked his head back when the jet of water hit his face. The rag would have come off if it wasn’t being held tight behind his head. It was more than enough force for the water to make it through to leak into his nose and mouth.

To make it worse, he’d taken a shocked breath at the sudden cold drench and was already choking. The subsequent thrashing was not good for his abdominal injuries.

Why the fuck had he decided to disobey orders? Running halfway across Europe just to check on some dumbass asset who was probably fine. His own fucking idea, and it was about to get him killed.

He gulped in the warm air when the rag was wiped off his face. As he choked, the guy that had been leading the interrogation slapped him hard. “You listening to me, Agent?”

The group of men had already made it clear that their interests lay with SHIELD, not with Clint himself. He was fairly certain they didn’t even know his name. At the very least, they hadn’t used it.

Which of course, made everything that much worse. If they didn’t need him in particular, then he was just a stepping stone on their path to SHIELD. Not that he had any intentions of helping them on their way. Coulson had been the first person to look at him like a real human being in years.

The rag went back over his face and, for a few moments, there was nothing but the taste of it against his mouth. Rust and oil and the last breaths of who-knows-how-many people. Then the water hit, and the cold airlessness was his whole world.

And why had he decided to run halfway across a continent just to check on a well-hidden asset? Why had he ignored the extraction plan and run off on his own without telling anyone where he’d be? Was there a tactical reason, or a good plan, or anything that made any sense at all?

No. Clint had abandoned his post and his reason because the kid had had blue eyes and red hair and brought back a thousand memories of an older brother that had taken more than one punch for him.

And now he was stuck here for his stupidity. Paying back his debt to the universe blow by blow and cut by cut.

He gasped again, less forceful, since he’d had the foresight to take a deep breath that time. Mr. Bigshot smirked down at him, and Clint had the impression that this is what a drowning cat would feel like after being dragged out of the river by a hungry dog.

“Aw, look at this, boys!” The man ran his one of his hands up Clint’s thighs, and Clint had to fight the urge to snap his legs shut. It wouldn’t have done any good, with the way his knees were tied open to the chair legs.

“He’s a sweet little thing,” another man laughed from behind.

“And look,” the interrogator continued. “He’s all wet for us.”

Clint leaned his head back to look at the cells’ ceiling far above him. He worked to take his mind from the situation, someplace warm and safe and surrounded by friends. As the rag went over his face again, it occurred to Clint that his trainers hadn’t told him what to do when there were no happy memories to take yourself back to.

***

Four days later, Clint was ready to break. He was thinking hard about it, but had already moved past considering whether or not he _was_ going to do it to _how_ he was going to do it. Maybe he could add some lies and get his captors caught. Or maybe he would just tell the whole truth and they could just kill him and be done with it.

His whole side was a mass of deep purple, and that was the worst. He’d started to hope that he actually was dying of internal bleeding, but it didn’t seem to be true. His only out wasn’t coming for him after all.

At least, not unless he convinced his captors that he had told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Really, even when he spilled, there was still the painful reality that the torture would continue. Probably on a more “permanent damage” route.

But what the fuck did it matter anyway? SHIELD wasn’t anything to him. He was too new to mean shit to them, and he certainly wasn’t worth sending someone to track him down. Why would they?

Barney had ditched him, once his pre-teen years of familial responsibility were over. Trickshot had pinned him to a tree and left him for dead. His own personal worth fluctuated like a tidal bore. He should have known that SHIELD would cut their losses. Hell, any organization with any sense would do the same.

He was thinking through how to best break, how to give himself the highest chance of a quick death, when the first gun shots rang out. The room slowly became a flurry of activity that was not centered around him. Clint took the opportunity to fall into pleasant unconsciousness.

He awoke to his name and opened his eyes into a strange face. Shaven and very much not smelling of alcohol. Not his captors, then.

“Hey kid,” the man grinned. “Nice to see you with us. May’s going to cut you lose ok? Don’t do anything stupid like try and hit someone.”

A rescue then. He felt the ties peeled away from his wrists and cried out at the touch against the bleeding ulcers they left behind.

“Can you stand?”

“He can’t even talk, Ryker. I’ll carry him.”

“No thank you, Agent May. I’d rather have you taking out all the bad guys. That way, I don’t have to do any work.”

The name was familiar in Clint’s mind, and the recognition came to him as he felt himself thrown over the shoulder of the man who’d woken him.

“May?” Clint managed to choke out. “Coulson’s friend? Why’re you here?”

“Because Coulson threw a fit, and he has the best persuasive tactics on this side of the universe. Don’t drop him, Ryker. I’m not stopping for anything. We’re out of here in two minutes or we’re dead.”

Clint lapsed back into unconsciousness at the heavy run down the hallway. Even the intermittent gunshots didn’t bring him out again.

***

“I don’t understand, sir,” Clint responded. He was standing at full attention, much as it pulled on various lingering bruises across his skin.

“You’re a valuable Agent, Barton. I have high hopes for you. I don’t see what’s difficult to understand about that.”

“You got a team of volunteers together. This wasn’t even a mandatory mission.”

“Well, no. You had gone off the books. It took a great deal of work, personal time invested by my friends and myself, to find you.”

“And I’m grateful, sir. I am. You don’t have to tell me about the debt I owe now. I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I’ll make it up to all of them.”

“You make it up to them by putting yourself out to save someone else someday. That’s the way they’ll consider themselves paid back. That’s how it works around here.”

“Yes, sir!”

“So what is it that you don’t understand?”

“Why me?”

“I just told you. We go after our own.”

“I was going to break. I was going to tell them everything I knew, and I wasn’t going to be sorry.”

“Everyone breaks eventually. How long it takes is just a matter of-”

“Commitment.” The word was bitter, and Clint kept his eyes wide to try and dry to the tears before they could spill over.

“No.” Coulson stepped around the desk and stand face to face with Clint. “That’s not was I was going to say. That’s not what this is about. How long it takes is a matter of the type of torture. How good they are at making it personal. How deep and how slow they take it. Different people hold out different lengths of time because they have different experiences.”

“Because they have different priorities.” Clint broke his strict attention to smear away the tear running down his cheek. He moved to a whisper, to keep his voice from breaking. “Because they’re stronger.”

“You are exactly as strong as you need to be, Barton. And if anyone, including yourself, tries to tell you differently, then you tell them to shut the hell up.”

“I will never understand you came for me.”

Coulson clapped his hand down on Clint’s shoulder and pulled him closer, forcing Clint to look him in the eye. “And yet, we will always do just that.”

***

“Got a case for you, Barton.” Coulson tossed the file to him, and he caught it deftly. Clint had never quite managed to copy that file-toss, and his previous attempt had left loose papers strewn across the room. It was a point of personal annoyance.

“Yeah? Anything interesting?”

“It’s not a fun one, I’m afraid. There’s a slave trader operating on U.S. soil. Bringing girls in from Pakistan, although we’re not sure about the route they're using to get across the border here.”

“Who’s leading the team?” Clint thumbed through a few pages, but couldn’t find the name.

“You are.”

“What?” he deadpanned.

“I thought it was about time you lead a mission. You have an exemplary record, and the guys respect you. There’ll be a command base here, but you’ll call the shots on site.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Tough. You have a briefing in eight hours, and you’re leading part of it. I suggest you familiarize yourself with the contents of that file. Jamison is waiting for you in conference room C for you guys to put together your presentation. Get moving.”

Clint hurried to leave, but hesitated in the doorway. “You sure about this?”

“Funny story. I get asked that question a lot, and usually the answer is no. I’m rarely sure about anything. In this world, it’s easy to second guess a lot of your own decisions. But today, I’m sure. In fact, do you know know the last time I was this sure?”

“When?”

“A few years back, when some friends of mine asked me if I really wanted to send an unofficial op into enemy territory to rescue some hot-shot archer.”

Clint opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, but Coulson interrupted him.

“I was sure then, and I’m sure now. Now get out of here.”

Clint shot him a salute and left quickly, closing the door behind him. After the latch had snicked shut, he looked down at the thick manila file in his hand. He’d been on so many missions he’d lost count. Maybe Coulson was right. Maybe it was time he led one.

“Besides,” he murmured to himself. “What could they throw at me that I haven’t seen before?”

Over four thousand miles away, an eager young woman was getting her own instructions at the feet of her master.

“Remember, dearest one,” the man cooed. “They’ve never seen anything like you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings ahead for explicit discussions of sexual exploitation of children, particularly since it includes true facts about human trafficking.

Stretched out on the Singaporean beach, her pale skin was catching every eye. She was arching her back enough that Clint was pretty sure she was about to fall out somewhere, since the swimsuit didn’t do much as it was. The whole thing made him want to take her right there, to show them all. It didn’t help that she’d let him.

He settled for the more socially acceptable murmur in her ear. “Showing off for me?”

She pulled her head away, giving him a ridiculous look, even with the sunglasses covering her eyes.

“Uh, no. Not at the moment. That’s Jordan Porter over there, latest rising star in the Chicago business empire. He’s currently speaking with the man whose name I _cannot_ find out. I’m honestly wondering if anyone left alive knows.”

“You’re _working_? We’re on vacation! Do you know how often SHIELD agents get vay-cay time? Use it and abuse it. Let’s split and find a liquor store. Pack up.”

She pulled her sunglasses down her face so they covered her mouth, letting her look him in the eye. “Is that an order?”

She’d been using that lately, as a sidestep to direct disobedience. When it had first started, he’d been thrilled. It was a fabulous way for her to communicate her discomfort at a situation, and it gave him plenty of warning when he was accidentally forcing her to do something. Except, he’d recently realized it was the best damn manipulation tactic she’d ever come up with. He didn’t have it in him to say “yes” but saying “no” wasn’t quite what he meant either.

He groaned and buried his face in his towel. He could feel the grains of sand beneath it, moving underneath the pressure. “You’re such a little brat!”

“Mm,” she agreed, sunglasses back on her face and eyes back on her target. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

“Because apparently we’re hunting a target now. But you just watch your ass once this is over.”

“Promises, promises.”

***

The worst part was that, once he learned why she’d singled out Jordan Porter, he had to get on board with the whole thing. Apparently the man spent his weekends in Singapore with various child prostitutes, which, in and of itself, wasn’t that rare. The going rate for a teenage girl tended to sit around three U.S. dollars. Not that the payment went to the girl.

“And of course, that means they’re not _worth_ anything to their owners. Don’t get treated if they’re sick. Don’t get kept safe. Getting pregnant can get them left to die.”

She’d been going on like that for longer than Clint had ever heard her talk outside of a cover ID. “So what makes this guy in particular special enough to get your personal attention? Not saying he doesn’t deserve it, but if vacational prostitution is so common…?”

“He likes them mutilated.”

“What?”

“He shops around and then, when he finds one, he slowly mutilates her. When he’s done, assuming she’s still sane, she’s not even worth the three dollars. She’ll die of starvation, not even looking human.”

“The _fuck_?”

“If she’s lucky, her owners kill her.”

“And they just _let_ him do this?”

Natasha looked up from the kit she’d been putting together for that night’s planned break-in. “It’s three dollars for him to fuck an eleven year old. Do you really think there’d be a limit on what he can get for a hundred?”

“And what exactly is the plan?”

“There’s an American saying. ‘Karma’s a bitch.’ I find the phrase appropriate.”

“No. I’m not going to let you mutilate him. It’s not…no. If you want to kill him, then I’m down. But seeing the aftermath of your torture was enough. Being the reason it happened was _more_ than enough. I will not play back-up to it.”

“Is that an order?”

“ _Yes_.”

She nodded and began to rearrange the pack she was making. “I can still kill him?”

“Sure.” He rolled his eyes. “Why not? Because this is apparently what we do with our time off. Make unsanctioned hits in foreign countries. Fury is going to rip me a new one. You, too, mostly likely. He’ll know this was your call. It’s your M.O.”

She looked back at him over her shoulder. “My M.O.?”

Clint waved his hands at her packing job as he propped his feet up on the table. “You know. This kid thing.”

She stopped, then, and turned to face him. Neither of them spoke, and Clint began to wonder if he’d said something horribly wrong.

“Uh, Nat?”

“I have a _pattern_?” The way she shrieked it made him stand up quickly, even though she didn’t seem to be unstable. “Over two decades of training and experience and the _first_ thing I do with my freedom is become _predictable_!”

Clint laughed loudly, relieved. “That’s your problem? Yeah, well, I’m afraid that’s exactly what you did. I mean, it’s understandable. Hell, I had a few issues of my own for a long time. It’s the way it goes. You’ll grow out of it.” He watched her mouth work. Speechless.

“So,” he prompted, “are you still down for tonight? Given that it’s so _predictable_?” He regretted the teasing immediately, when she sank to sat on the edge of bed with her face in her hands. “Whoa. Hey, I’m just messing with you. I’m not kidding when I say you’ll grow out of it. It’s ok.”

“I’m not supposed to grow out of things. I’m never supposed to grow _into_ them.”

“Um, no, that’s not how this works.”

“It _is_ how this works!” She surged to her feet, taking a step forward that was so heavy it was almost a foot-stamp.

Clint stepped forward just as quickly and caught her face in his hand. He dug his fingers into her cheeks and her mouth opened a little, involuntary against the pressure at her jaw.

“Contradict me again,” he breathed. “And see what happens.”

He could see her trying to decide what she wanted. Whether to push him over, or to keep it together and complete her self-prescribed penance. In the end, her mission won out.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, wilting in his grasp to sit back down on the bed’s edge.

He pushed her down to lay on her back, and climbed carefully on top of her. “You,” he hissed, “are peeling yourself apart, on purpose, with the goal of becoming an autonomous creature. That means _inevitable_ mistakes. You don’t get to blame poor choices on whoever crafted you, because _you_ craft you now. Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?”

“No.”

“Good.” He relaxed his hand on her face and planted a gentle kiss on her nose. “Now. Brief me on our mission, mon capitaine.”

***

Just a few minutes before they were set to head out, Clint’s phone vibrated. Apprehensive, he glanced down at the ID.

“Shit.”

She twisted from where she was perched to watch both the window and the door, focusing on Clint instead. “What?”

“It’s Everton.”

“Who?”

“Our handler?”

“I thought Revnick was our handler these days.”

“He rage-quit us. You’re getting quite the reputation.”

“So why is he trying to contact us? We’re on vacation, right? I’m not personally familiar with the concept, but I thought the point of that was your work not bothering you.” She stood up and took a few steps forward to join him at the table.

“Two possible reasons. First possibility, the world is going to hell this very moment and they need all hands on deck.” The phone fell silent and Clint kept looking at it. “In which case protocol dictates that he’ll leave a message and move on to the next person on his list. Second possibility, he knows we’re in the same area as one Mr. Jordan Porter and has decided to dissuade our outing. In which case, he’ll call right back.”

There were a couple beats of silence, and then the phone buzzed again. “Well. Now that we can reasonable rule out a world-wide apocalypse…” Clint clicked the phone to silent. “It’s too bad I’d already turned this off for stealth reasons. If he’d have just called a few minutes earlier...”

Natasha kissed him deeply. “I will never be able to convey the sheer gratitude you awaken in me.”

Clint frowned slightly. “You know I don’t like that word. Makes me feel like you still see me as the benevolent master. Like you’re grateful that I let you be human.”

“Sorry.” The apology seemed more rote than genuine, but Clint let it go as she pulled away to step out into the dark night.

***

She was always a little chagrined at her own surprise at his capabilities. Sometimes she got so caught up in making sure that her performance was perfect, she forgot that he was capable of taking up any slack she might leave behind.

Her current cause for admiration was the fact that he had somehow managed to make it to the target floor before her. She was less impressed with the fact that he was wearing sunglasses.

“Why are you wearing su-”

“Suuuuunglasses at night, I wear my suuunglasses at night!” He grinned at her and tipped the glasses down so they could see each other’s eyes. “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

“I have no idea what you’re doing right now.”

“Wow. Some people just have no culture. You run into any trouble on the way up here? I assume so, since I, you know, beat you up here.”

“You didn’t have any guards to deal with.”

“Look, climbing up the outside of a building isn’t as easy as I make it look.”

Natasha glanced behind her and then quickly stepped down the hallway, Clint following behind.

“If you remember,” she breathed so quietly that Clint had to get close enough to feel the heat on his neck, “I have beaten you in a climb up a building before.”

“Yeah?” Clint breathed back, but not quite as quietly. Her hand jerked like she was going to put it over his mouth, and Clint didn’t really want to know what the fallout from that would be. Fortunately, she redirected the gesture and covered her own mouth in demonstration.

Clint rolled his eyes but nodded. They kept their silence while the footsteps of the floor’s security patrol approached.

“Should we move?” Clint whispered, this time at a volume level acceptable to Natasha.

“The patrol route doesn’t come this way. They’re going to go around to the left.” She cocked her head to the side, watching the shadow lengthen in the wrong direction. They simultaneously came to the conclusion that the shadow’s owner was _not_ going around to the left.

Four seconds later a thin man in his early twenties came into view around the corner, tablet held loosely in one hands and stylus clenched in the other. His expensive but ill-fitting suit screamed “intern” and Clint’s mouth quirked in frustration. Guards and pedophiles were one thing. Probably-innocent straight-from-business-school interns were another matter.

The kid looked up, thin gray eyes widening slightly when he noticed the black-clad Clint half-crouched against the hallway wall. He never even noticed Natasha.

Clint barely had time to order, “Don’t kill him,” before the kid dropped to the floor.

“I wasn’t going to kill him.”

“That’s great. I’m currently more concerned with what we’re going to do with him now.” He looked down at the kid. “What did you give him?”

“Not sure. Some compound the lab made for me. I think it’s mostly Ketamine. It’s not going to last very long.”

“Well then let’s hurry and get him in the closet or something.”

They moved him quickly, looping the ties around his ankles and wrists and deftly gagging him. It was the work of a few risky moments to get him fully-trussed and in the closet.

“I feel bad for him.”

“Why? He’ll wake up with a dry mouth and a little hypertension. And he’ll be down one pedophilic employer. So, bonus.” She swung the closet shut, but Clint kept staring at the closed door. “Are you about to make this a thing? You don’t _know_ that he’s innocent. Tell me this isn’t about to become a thing.”

“We could at least get him a nice vacation in Hawaii or something.”

“I don’t understand your constant need to reaffirm to yourself that you’re the good guy here. I don’t understand why _how_ this all goes down is so important to you. We’re going to kill Porter. He’s going to be dead. The rest of it fades away into irrelevance.”

“Maybe, but we’re working on your moral improvement here.”

“He is a child molesting sadist. I think it should be ok to torture him.”

“Moral. Superiority.”

“In Ancient Rome, they would have smashed his testicles between two stones before executing him.”

“Ok fine! Let’s just kidnap him then and we can build some fucked up maze like a Saw movie or something.”

“Saw movie?”

“You are _so_ not allowed to watch those.”

“I assume you’re being sarcastic then? With the kidnapping thing.”

“Clearly.”

***

She wasn’t worried about the kill. Regardless of Clint’s posturing, her moral status was “ambiguous” if it was there at all, and the idea behind this execution stood firm, even without the weight of a SHIELD mandate behind it.

Besides, she’d been making executions for a long time, and not just before she came under Clint’s law. If they’d ever encountered someone out on their missions who she thought deserved to die, they didn’t survive the encounter. She didn’t see how this was any different. Still the same motion of a cold knife across warm skin. The only difference was that this situation was stripped of its trappings.

She pursed her lips together in annoyance as she came to a stop just before the last turn in the hallway. Another step, and the bodyguards outside Jordan Porter’s study would see her. If he continued within his routine, he’d be there for another hour still.

The leeway of time did little to calm her. She kept thinking about what Clint had said in the hotel room. It had taken her less than six months to completely dirty her own slate as an Agent. Only amateurs had patterns linking the white collar divisions of any agency to their weaknesses and preferences.

She considered hacking her own file and reorganizing the data, but she knew Clint would draw the line there. She also considered doing it anyway, and just not telling him, but that was its own classification of implausible. Their current “extra-curricular” activity was already squirming her further down that deep hole of debt she owed him.

“I’ve got left,” he breathed in her ear.

She nodded and gripped the handle of the specialized weapon, sliding it out of her holster. Its brief electrical charge would be more than enough to floor the guard. It wasn’t as effective as a drug or a bullet, but the first required her to get too close, and the second? Well, Clint had barely been on board with the whole thing in the first place.

One brief moment of synchronicity later, and she was pressing her ear up against the door. The room didn’t have any cameras, and it would probably be a waste of time to check them even if it did. The chances that Porter was doing anything dangerous in there were slim to none.

She heard Clint checking the bodies on the floor as she turned the door handle. She pushed it open slowly, grateful for the high quality maintenance that kept its swing silent. She peered carefully through the small crack, eyes darting around for her target. She ended up having to strain all the way around to the right in order to find him, perched calmly on the edge of a deep red couch, fingers picking at…

Her previous assumption that nothing in that room would be dangerous had been entirely wrong. His fingers were picking at the hem of a young girl's dress. She couldn’t be more than twelve.

Natasha didn’t remember crossing the room, but she wouldn’t soon forget the mirrored looks of confusion in the two faces that started up at her as she reached the couch. Then she dug her fingers into Porter’s hair, grasping tightly to keep her grip.

As if mocking her, both his face and the little girl’s simultaneously changed to reflect a frozen fear. She changed that by angling the man’s head up and plunging the knife into his throat.

The girl didn’t scream. Instead she just shuffled back along the couch until she pressed against the arm of it. Their eyes met, and Natasha could feel the blood against her fingers along with the man’s last breathes. She could hear his lungs aspirating with his own blood.

She could also hear Clint behind her, and each step he took vibrated with alarm. She used her last second before he reached her to pull the knife back out and roughly shoved in back in at the base of his sternum. She slit down, almost losing her grip in the spurt of hot blood. She made it through the diaphragm and then down far enough that she could make out internal organs, before Clint’s arms closed around her from behind.

She went limp compliantly, and let him guide her away from the body and a few steps back. Then he turned to the girl. She was still watching, wide-eyed and covered in blood. Natasha felt a grim triumph at the irony. A few hours later, and the girl would have been covered in her own blood, instead.

When Clint took a few steps toward the couch, the child shoved herself backwards hard enough that she went over the back of the arm, landing in an ungraceful tangle. Then she scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door. Clint rushed to intercept her, but was only quick enough to feel the brush of the girl’s hair as she passed him.

“Do we go after her?” he asked, hesitating in the doorway.

They heard the sharp bang of a window opening at the end of the hallway, and Clint peered his head around, presumably watching her climb out of it.

“She seems resourceful enough,” Natasha answered. “What did you want to do? Take her with us?”

_Don’t you think your hands are full enough with one broken girl?_

“The thought crossed my mind.” Now that the moment of action was over, she could hear the anger creeping into his voice. Everything was covered in blood, and it was going to be a pain to try and get anywhere without witnesses remembering a couple fleeing through the streets in blood-stained black outfits.

“She seemed determined to take care of herself. Besides,” she gestured to the dead man on the couch, “maybe we’ve taught her something today.”

His jaw ticked, and she held her breath as she waited to see how his anger would manifest, sighing in relief when he marched up to her and wrapped his fingers in her hair. He tightened his grip, pulling her face to his.

“You might have just done more damage to that girl’s mind than she has had done yet. While I _pray_ she will be all right, I do not have enough optimism to _hope_ for it.”

Her heart stuttered in pain at his rebuke, not so much for its content as for its tone. The only consolation in his deep disappointment with her was the way he kept his physical contact. Even when he loosened his grip in her hair, he trailed his hand down against face.

“We will talk about this later,” he hissed, turning to lead her from the room. He entwined his hand with hers as he forced her to trail behind.

They ended up following the girl’s route out the window. Besides a few times when it was absolutely necessary, Clint kept some type of hold on her body all the way out of the building and through the back alleys to their hotel. It was highly impractical, and neither of them minded at all.

***

When they got back to the suite, Clint clicked on the television, flipping through it quickly. He swore to himself when his suspicions were confirmed, and the assassination was playing as “breaking news” on multiple channels.

“Do you see this?” he snapped at her. “If we’d stuck to the plan, this wouldn’t even be a story. It would be hours before his staff got suspicious enough to file report, and they _still_ wouldn’t have had a body. You don’t think SHIELD is going to pick up on this?”

He didn’t try to mask the anger in his voice as he normally did, instead letting it be its own retribution. She was shuffling backwards and forwards on the carpet in front of him, trying to simultaneously get closer to him and back away from his words.

“You don’t want to hear this?” He stepped forward and pulled her roughly toward him by her arm. “Then explain to me what exactly could _possibly_ havebeen going through your head.”

“Did I look like that?” she blurted out, trembling underneath his hand.

Sensing something off in the sentence, his let his expression relax slightly. “Look like what?”

“She didn’t look at him like she was afraid. She was looking at him like she knew what was going to happen, and she was more than ready for it. Eager, almost, to take control of the situation. Too conditioned to that understanding. And I want to know, did I already look at him like that when I was that young?”

Clint’s orientation to the moment spun. He discarded all the thoughts of a careful punishment that he’d been building up, reaching his arms around to encompass her instead. She was trembling so hard. Why hadn’t he noticed?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s fine. We’ll go home. Let’s go home.” He could feel the pale clamminess of her skin under his hands. “It doesn’t matter how you looked at him. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He held her tightly enough that her body couldn’t shiver, caught in his compression.

“I wanna look at you,” she mumbled into his shirt, barely understandable.

He drew her back so they could see each other’s faces. “I’m right here,” he reassured. “I’m right here. Look all you want.” His mouth quirked in a cocky grin. “I’ve got a lot to offer, I know. Soothe yourself with my god-like figure.”

She was biting her bottom lip hard enough to be concerning, but she did laugh through her nose at his stupid humor. “Well,” she pressed. “I can hardly see enough of you right now for it to do much good. Is there a therapeutic threshold somewhere? I don’t think we’ve reached it.”

He raised an eyebrow, unsure whether this was going in a dangerous direction or in a healing one. She had a habit of trying to please him as some sort of penance for her perceived insufficiency. But then again, “take off your clothes” wasn’t really the same as “let me suck you off.”

As he considered, she bucked her hips into him, petulant and demanding, even as she still trembled. She whined plaintively, an actual damn whine, and wiggled her hips back and forth against him.

“I want to _see_ you,” she insisted.

“Well, then. Who am I to deny a fan?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW ahead for mentions of past child abuse, including sexual abuse.  
> Also, side note, don’t hit kids. It’s not ok. Not even in this situation.  
> Finally, shout out to [bucky-thevampireslayer](http://bucky-thevampireslayer.tumblr.com/), who has kindly taken over beta-ing this work. Deepest gratitude for her patience with my mistakes.

There was something about being yelled at by Fury that just changed ones priorities. For example, Clint was currently rethinking any and all decisions he’d ever made on his own. They were probably all stupid. He should probably never make his own call again. He should only follow orders and never deviate from them at all.

Natasha seemed to be holding her own better. At least, at far as he could tell. But she was kind of cheating. With the amounts of submission she tended to show him, there probably wasn’t any left in her for moments like this.

“And another thing!” Fury’s voice was loud enough that Clint was pretty sure it was echoing within the office. That or he was developing a ringing in his ears. “You _never_ ignore a call from a handler. What if we’d needed your particular talents? I might not be able to think of any possible use you could ever be at this particular moment, but stranger things have happened.”

Clint wasn’t even sure how the man knew he’d deliberately avoided the phone call. The official report they’d been forced to submit just said that he’d missed it.

“And you” he rounded on Natasha. “Don’t think I’m not paying attention to your growing extracurricular activities. I barely have _one_ eye on you, and I’ve already figured out your game. You don’t think anyone out hunting for you could, too?”

He took a step back so he could look at them both. “If either of you _ever_ perform an unsanctioned hit again, I will let the authorities have you. You will sit in some prison for fucking normal people until I decide that I need you enough to get you back out. And, as a personal favor to yourself, please realize that’s it’s more likely I’ll forget I even have you two down there than that I’ll actually need your talents. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

They obeyed quickly, Natasha right behind Clint.

“That was a remarkably unpleasant experience, given the fact that there was no physical pain involved.”

“Speak for yourself,” Clint muttered. There was definitely a ringing in his ears. “I also very much doubt that that was the end of it. He’ll find a way to make us really suffer for this.”

“I didn’t know that there were so many laws about who your government is allowed to kill.”

“We’re not technically the government, but don’t think for a moment that Fury wouldn’t hand our asses over if he thought he should. The very fact that we still have our freedom means he didn’t like the guy’s resume any more than you did.”

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

“I know.” He entwined his fingers with hers. “We’ve been over it.”

***

Clint couldn’t help watching her watch people. They were seated in a dark corner of her favorite Italian restaurant, Natasha on one side of the booth in her elegant floor-length dress, and Clint on the other side in his barely-close-enough-to-a-suit-to-make-this-place’s-dress-code. Anyone looking at her might think she was completely absorbed in her veal scaloppini marsala.

She wasn’t, of course. Clint had long ago learned that, when unoccupied, her natural state was one of absolute stillness. She didn’t shift about or waste energy fidgeting. Yet, whenever they were in public, she was always making minute adjustments to her posture, making sure she kept everyone and everything in some sort of sight.

“Let’s play a game,” he said, putting his own fork down on the plate. Her eyes flew up to meet his, and he reached out to cup one hand around her eyes, blocking her view of the restaurant floor.

“What’s the game?”

“A memory game. And an observation game, I guess. I ask you questions about what’s going on out there, and you answer. Simple enough.”

“What do I get if I win?”

He smiled at that, leaning forward across the table to touch their foreheads’ together. “Do you know why that question makes me happy? Because a few months ago, you would have asked, ‘what happens if I lose?’ instead.”

“Matter of perspective,” she murmured, but she was mirroring his smile. “Are you going to answer or not?”

“I’m feeling generous, so let’s make it a blank check. For every question you get right, you get to make a request of me, at any moment of your choosing, and I’ll comply, no questions asked. Fair enough?”

“More than.”

“I’m not going to take it easy on you. Especially with such a substantial reward in the balance.”

“Give it your best shot.”

Clint looked out at the floor, reminding himself that something he would consider a difficult question probably wouldn’t phase her.

“Ok, largest table in the room. What’s the occasion?”

Natasha scoffed. “The older girl just completed her white coat ceremony into medical school. The coat is literally still hanging on the back of the chair. I thought you weren’t going to take it easy on me?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Fine, ok that’s one then.”

“I want a kiss.”

“What? Right now? You know these can be stored up, right? I said you could redeem them at any moment.”

“I thought you also said there would be no questions asked.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that, leaning down to grant her request, awkwardly keeping his hand in her line of sight. He wasn’t particularly surprised when she refused to keep the kiss chaste. When he did pull away again, they were both slightly breathless.

“Ok, second question,” Clint laughed, determined to give her one she couldn’t get. “Describe the people sitting at the third farthest table of those along the half wall.” It was a cheap shot really. The older couple hadn’t been seated there till after he’d covered her eyes.

“Mmm, couple in their mid-sixties. He’s wearing a black dinner suit that puts your faux pas to shame. She’s wearing a lovely little A-line, even if it is hemmed a little high. Maybe it’s to show off the shoes. Christian Louboutin.”

“How the fuck?”

“It pays to know designer shoes. Nothing gives quite as much insight to a woman’s societal implications as her shoes.”

“I meant the table. They hadn’t been seated yet.”

“I know. But they’d come in the door and there really wasn’t anywhere else for them to be seated. Much better question, by the way. It was almost difficult.”

She smirked at him, and he understood the implication behind “wasting” a request on a kiss. Not only did she have the whole room in a mental photograph right in front of her eyes, she had all the possible occurrences laid out. She probably could guess where they all worked. He definitely wasn’t going to be able to win even one round.

Clint felt his phone buzz in his jacket pocket at the same time that Natasha’s eyes darted down to her clutch. Her mouth quirked in displeasure as she reached to dig out her phone, and Clint took his hand away from her face to get at his own.

Ever since Clint had ignored the call in Singapore, Coulson, under orders from Fury, had been checking in on them randomly through the days. It was just a quick text or two to see what they were doing, but everyone knew the potential consequences of missing or ignoring the messages wouldn’t be worth it.

However, while the texts were indeed from Coulson, they weren’t the usual check-in. Clint narrowed his eyes as he reread his message.

“They can’t be serious,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Natasha shrugged as she waved her hand to flag down the head waiter. He noticed the motion and hurried over, asking what was amiss in Italian. Natasha smiled and responded in the same language, presumably asking for the check.

Clint took the opportunity to shoot off a response to Coulson that read, “You don’t think this is a bad idea? Cause I think this is a bad idea.”

The waiter withdrew to get the check and Clint looked back at Natasha again.

“Pity our game had to be cut short,” she sighed. “I have a feeling you’d just realized how much I had the upper hand.”

“Was Nicolo upset?” They’d long ago gotten on first name basis with most of the staff. Clint was pretty sure that Natasha had done the owner some big favor, and he really didn’t want to know what. The wait staff always had a particular eye out for them and personalized desserts made their way to their table more than half the time. He didn’t intend to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I made an excuse for us, and he said he was sorry to see us go so soon. What about you? You seem upset yourself. More upset than I would expect from having dinner cut short.”

Clint waved his phone at her. “I’m not thrilled about this, honestly. Are you saying you’re comfortable with it?”

“I don’t think that ‘comfortable’ is the word I would use, no. But you yourself said that you doubted that our dressing-down was the end of the Singapore retributions. You appear to have been correct.”

“Tasha. If we’re being completely honest, I’m a little worried that you’ll get out of hand. Running the trainee testing exercises can push the patience of any seasoned agent, and we already know you have a track record for being an impatient teacher.”

She made a face. “I do not, in truth, have much patience for any failures or incompetence. But the order seems to have been made, so I’ll have to manage. I’m certain that if I can withstand torture in silence, then I can make it through a few days training new recruits. We don’t seem to have a choice.”

Clint’s phone buzzed again, and he glanced down at the message.

_I’m sure she can handle it. Either way, it’s out of my hands._

“No,” Clint agreed. “I guess we don’t.”

***

The reason for this particular punishment assignment was that several of the full-time trainers had been loaned out to an undisclosed country for an undisclosed reason. The journey was going to be about a week, round trip, and the Training Center had needed a few extra hands.

“It’s not like you’re going to be doing anything complicated,” Erin Atwell explained. He was currently second-in-command at the Center, and had been tasked with getting them set up. “If anything unusual comes up, or anything concerning happens, please get one of the actual staff. We just need a few extra pairs of hands doing stuff like hold down the range. Make sure no one kills anybody, that they follow all the rules, and other stuff like that.”

Which made Clint feel better about the whole thing. If they weren’t going to be interacting with the kids, then Natasha would likely keep her cool. She’d be bored, of course. Hell, _he’d_ be bored. But he supposed they’d more than earned it.

“I have to ask,” Atwell interrupted Clint’s thoughts. “We don’t usually get agents down here for this kind of thing. It’s kind of menial, all things considered.”

Natasha laughed, and Clint rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re well aware of that.”

Atwell wisely let the matter drop.

***

The first couple of days passed without incident. Natasha hung around in the shooting range, checking guns in and out and making sure no one broke protocol. Clint perched himself on a metal folding chair in the sparring room and glared pointedly at anyone who looked like they were losing their temper. Boring, repetitive, and predictable.

“Doing anything to keep yourself busy?” Clint asked her after the first day. “I’ve started giving everyone nicknames in my head.”

“Ugh. Mostly I’ve just been analyzing. Treating it like a mission helps. I’m trying to get everyone’s name and their relationships and backstories. It’s tedious, but it puts me in the right mindset.”

“Well, good for you. But, I do have something for you.” He leaned across the bed and pulled the nightstand drawer open, fishing around in it. “Kay picked it up while she was helping with something physics-y in Japan.”

He tossed her the wooden box, and she caught it with one hand.

“It’s a puzzle box.”

“Obviously. The guy Kay got it from said it’s the most difficult one he’d come across. He’d been working on it for years and hadn’t gotten past the first couple steps. Thought you might use it if you get antsy in there, with nothing to do. They say the Japanese puzzle masters have no real competition from anywhere else in the world. ”

Natasha rubbed her fingers over the smooth wood, seemingly without a single separation. “Master against master then? How could I refuse the challenge?”

***

The puzzle box was a relief. While she hasn’t been about to admit it to him, she’d been having difficulty keeping it together at the range. The people-watching thing had only held her attention for so long. The kids obviously weren’t trying to hide anything about themselves, and information had been too easy to glean.

It was only a few hours into the next day, when she began playing with the box, sliding her fingers over the sides, pushing and pulling and pressing in all sorts of different combinations. She found herself with a mental chart in her head of all the things she’d tried. Each time she was interrupted by a trainee checking a weapon in or out, she had to place the image on hold in her head, trying to remember the pattern without actually having the object in her hand.

It wasn’t until several hours into her task that she felt the first give of the perfect little object. After that, it wasn’t so much easier as it was more patterned. She began to get a feel for the box, like it had a personality. In some way, she supposed it was the mind of its maker, bleeding through.

In all, the puzzle kept her occupied for longer than she’d hoped. By the time she’d disassembled it, she and Clint only had one day left at their penance. Which meant that she almost made it through the entire week without incident.

Unfortunately, the long-entertaining task meant that its absence was sorely missed. While she’d been hanging on before, the sheer emptiness of the long day was worsened because she’d grown used to having something.

She felt herself begin to stray into the dangerous ground of self-berating. She knew Clint hated the feeling that came with bringing her down after one of those spirals, and she struggled against it as best she could. She would do whatever it took to keep it together a little longer for him.

Seeking something to do, she found herself disassembling a Makarov, and she was relieved by the sudden _something_ to do. She glanced at the clock, deciding to time how long it would take her to disassemble and reassemble one of each of the weapon options available.

The time she ended up with wasn’t good enough to impress herself, so she started again. And then a third time. Which was when she realized she was creating an audience.

_Can’t even keep under the radar when I’m stuck behind a desk._

She let the thought slide away as she contemplated her small audience. In truth, most of the trainees in the room were still focused on their own tasks, but there were a few who appeared more intend on her actions than she herself had been.

“Need something?” she quipped.

“Is that just something you picked up from working in the range or did you train for that?” one particularly outgoing girl asked. She was fairly short, compared to the rest of her classmates, leaning over the counter, pale eyes watching Natasha’s fingers even as she asked the question. Her dark hair was just long enough to be held back in a ponytail, though enough strands fell out to still get in her eyes. Irresponsible.

Natasha finished up the rifle she was on and placed it in its position, before she turned to answer the question.

“Celine, right?”

That took the girl aback. “How’d you know that?”

“The same way I know you think you just met Hashid there for the first time, even though it’s the second. The same way I know that you and Victor were once friends, and now you’re not. The same way I know that Aimee has it out for you, even though you don’t believe Demi, behind you on your left, when she tells you that.”

Natasha savored the wide-eyed expressions of those before her. Celine had stood back from the table, no longer peering over it in eagerness. Natasha leaned forward to take her place where she had been and continued, “Perhaps you should guard your name more closely. But to answer your question, it’s not a trick I ‘picked up’.” She stood back up straight to contemplate the array of weaponry. “I was trained for it. I was beaten when I got it wrong the first time, and burned when I got it wrong the second.” She shrugged. “I never learned what would have happened if I got it wrong again.”

“They’re going to beat us?” Hashid gapped from behind Celine.

“Told you so,” Demi snapped, mouth pinching up tightly.

Natasha scoffed. “I doubt it. I wasn’t trained here.”

She wasn’t sure why she kept going. She hadn’t intend to be so revealing, especially with the way Demi and Hashid were reacting. But Celine? Celine had leaned back over the counter again, her whole body straining toward Natasha, and something in Natasha became so desperate to tell her, to communicate the real danger of losing yourself, that she kept talking.

“I was trained far away in places where you’d be wise to sell yourself to avoid, if necessary. With men who don’t understand what it feels like to be stripped away, and so delight in doing it all the more. I was trained by a man who used his cock in every orifice I had as both a punishment and a reward until I grew too confused to understand whether or not I deserved pain or pleasure for my accomplishments. Do you know what it feels like, when you are made up of nothing but the will of another?”

Demi had her hand over her mouth and Hashid was standing twisted to the side, as if he were trying to walk away from the conversation and couldn’t find the strength.

But Celine…she had a grip on the edge of the wooden counter so deep that the corners were digging into her fingers. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes bright. Not out of eagerness, but rather desperation. In a here-and-gone moment of understanding, Natasha _knew_ that some part of her story was triggering a memory in Celine. A memory dark and ugly enough that none of her friends knew it. A memory hidden away deep enough that it only came out in nightmares and raw moments like this one.

“It feels like you're drowning,” she breathed to Natasha. “It feels like every time you close your eyes for just a second, a whole year has passed. A year that should have been your own, but instead it’s twisted and hollowed out and no good for anything ever again.”

Natasha reach out as though she were about to brush away the single tear threatening to spill over from Celine’s eye, but she curbed the movement and drew her hand back. Instead, she conjured up the richest compliment she could remember.

“Clever girl.”

And then the moment broke. Celine remembered her friends behind her, and the test she had coming on Tuesday, and the fact that she had to find time between now and Friday to make her way down to the medical bay to get the vaccinations she hadn’t been able to get as a child. She withdrew from the counter slowly, letting her life reaffirm itself in her mind.

“Are you a good shot, too, or do you just sit back there and play with the guns?”

If her voice was a little shaky, no one said commented on it.

“I’m the best shot you’ve ever met,” Natasha informed her. Then she grimaced. “Unless you put a bow and arrow in my hand. Someone else I know has the drop on that one.”

“The best, huh? So, teach us something we don’t know. Teach us something you learn in the field; something our instructors think we’re too delicate to learn.”

“I only know how to teach the way I was taught.”

“With a beating for every incorrect move? Well, I’ve taken a beating before, and I suspect I will again. I’m game if you are.”

Both Demi and Hashid backed away, each indicating they had no desire to play that game. As for herself, Natasha only hesitated a moment before she twisted herself up to slide gracefully over the barrier.

“Particular model you had in mind?”

“What are you best with?”

“Russian makes. I’ve always had a personal preference for a Makarov pistol.”

“If that’s what you’re best on, then that’s what I want you to teach me.”

Demi and Hashid, along with a few more, held back behind to watch the interaction. Natasha walked Celine through the weight of the pistol. She explained the expectation of a draw and how to choose where to conceal it, based on expected trouble. She recommended holding a fully loaded one in her hand, all the time, until the weight of it was so familiar that she’d know if she were ever holding an empty one.

“One day,” Natasha explained, “it might make the difference between a split-second moment that saves your life, or one that ends it.”

“Can _you_ tell, then?”

Natasha smirked. “With a Makarov? Forget empty or full. I can tell you how many bullets there are, exactly.”

Which of course put the lesson on hold for a guessing game that left even the most stoic of the gathering trainees impressed. Their crowd had grown larger.

Large enough that, once Natasha got Celine actually firing the thing, the rest of the range was in near-silence. Which meant that, when Celine missed on her first shot, the crack of Natasha’s backhand against her face echoed. The sharp sound was quickly followed by a collective gasp from the gallery. Demi, to her credit, took a full step toward the two of them, though she seemed unsure what she planned to do.

Celine, for her part, picked herself back up off the floor, repositioned her hold on the weapon, replayed all of Natasha advice and soft pushes in her mind, and fired again. That shot hit the outer edge of the target, and Celine looked up, unsure if that was good enough.

“Close,” Natasha smiled, leaning over to whisper more advice and readjust her position again.

Celine’s next shot was close enough to the center that it looked like a bull’s-eye to most of the crowd, though she and Natasha both knew better. The next hit dead center, as did almost all that followed.

***

Clint groaned, lying back on the bed, covering his face with a pillow. “And what are you going to do if one of them tells on you? There were sixteen eighteen-year-olds in that room. You really don’t think any of them are going to tell?”

“Not if they know what’s good for them?”

“Oh god, are you _threatening_ them?”

“Not at all. I’m not the one they should be worried about. Celine’s going to be running that group very soon, if not already. She doesn’t want the story getting out, therefore they’d be wise to keep it to themselves.” She climbed up and flopped herself down on top of Clint, who grunted at the sudden weight of her. “Besides, it was nice to use my manipulation tactics for something good.”

Clint tossed the pillow off his face and onto the floor, looking at her carefully. “That’s not manipulation. Reading someone’s emotions and using that to help guide what you say and how you behave isn’t innately manipulative. At some level, it’s just social interaction.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, clearly uninterested in the conversation.

Clint twisted around so he was fully on his back and wrapped his legs around her waist, pinning her hard. “I’m serious, Nat. There’s a big difference between paying attention to how someone’s feeling so you can help them and paying attention so you can help yourself. Think about me.”

“I usually am.”

“Yeah ok, putting that _aside_ , think about how you read me. Are you paying attention to me so you can get something you want? So you can hurt me?”

She tried to draw back in horror, kept from being able to do so by the legs around her waist. “No! I would never. Please, I would never!”

“Shhh,” he soothed, reaching up to cup her face. He brushed softly, letting the friction of his fingers build up warmth against her skin. “I know. Just, maybe try and entertain the thought that not every interaction you have with anyone who’s not me is a strategy tactic. It’s good that you’re…making friends? I guess. If there’s a way you make friends, that was probably it.”

She sighed, and he could feel her breath against his lips. It made him lean up, chasing her mouth, and she naturally obliged. He could feel her relaxing underneath his hands, muscles unknotting and rolling as she found herself pressed against him in comfort.

They rutted against each other for a while, slow but needy at the same time. Clint ran his hands down between where he had his own thighs wrapped around her waist, opened handed so his palms lay against her sides and the backs of his hands against his own thighs. Then he squeezed deep handfuls of her, feeling the muscles beneath his fingers, the folds of skin, and the rising slick of sweat. He gripped her hard enough that she groaned her love of bruises into his mouth.

“You love it when I mark you,” he murmured against her, as they each took a moment to breathe.

Natasha responded by leaning herself against him so she could pull her shirt off. Clint mimicked her movement, and their rutting became more desperate. He was using the grip of his legs against her waist to push them against each other and his cock bulged against the fabric as it strained for more friction.

Clint reached one hand over Natasha’s back, feeling his nails scratch at her shoulder blade for purchase, while his other hand dug its way underneath her bra line to play with one breast. It was a fumbling attempt, with the tight elastic of her garment impeding him. She laughed, ditching that to, and he renewed his efforts.

He was surprised when Natasha caved first, pulling back against the vice of his legs until he let her go. Once free, she made short work of undressing him completely, pulling everything off at once and tossing it onto the floor.

“You don’t even _know_ ,” Clint panted from up at the head of the bed. His hands skittered down his own body, searching for her. He managed to get one hand in her hair, but the other ended up clutching his own inner thigh as he arched his back and moaned.

“Don’t even know what?”

“What you do! How you feel. The way you rub against my skin, like some sort of—fuck! I can’t _breathe_. I lose all my—fucking hell.”

“Articulation?” she quipped.

“My precision! I can feel myself shake apart within you. Want—ng—want you. Want to taste you.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Clint placed one hand on either side of her hips and guided her. He could feel the push and pull of the muscles in her thighs. Natasha reached one hand back to twist her hair up into a messy bun that she held against her head. She was looking down at Clint with partially opened eyes that slowly became more focused as she noticed he was staring up at her.

They’d both quieted; even Clint’s expletives having stopped all together. They just moved together, in no hurry to get anywhere, in perfect tandem.

***

They woke many hours later, to the sound of Clint’s phone buzzing.

“That’s not your alarm,” Natasha murmured against his neck.

Clint groaned in distress at the idea of having to move, made worse by Natasha’s light fingers already trailing up and down his stomach, making their way lower in a two-steps-forward-one-step-back motion. However, the lessons about answering his phone were still fresh in his mind, and he begrudgingly rolled over to fumble about on the bedside table.

“Ug. Looks like I’m heading out for a mission this afternoon. Gonna take a couple days.”

“Me, too?”

“Nope, this one’s on me.” They both glanced up and across the room when Natasha’s phone also buzzed. “But it sounds like you’ve got one of your own.”

She sighed heavily and crawled her way out from under the covers. The faint cold of the room was worsened by her having to abandon the warmth of her lover, and she hurried to snatch her phone and crawl back into bed.

She really was getting soft.

“Mine sounds pretty boring. Wrap and grab. Some guy that SHIELD doesn’t want running around freely during some op they’ve got going down.”

“You’re doing a job for acquisitions?”

“I don’t mind.”

“It makes me a little uncomfortable, honestly. Considering your history with them and all.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she smiled. “I’m a full-blown agent now, remember? I get some say these days. Besides, it doesn’t look like this is permanent. They plan to release him once the op is done. Just an insurance thing.” She flipped her phone shut and snuggled in against him. “What’s yours? Anything more interesting?”

“Might be. Apparently some giant hammer fell from space or something. It’s stuck in a crater in the middle of nowhere and, apparently, no one’s been able to move it since it landed.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to re-watch Thor for this one. Oh how I suffer. :P  
> Um, some angst ahead, particularly of a remembering past physical child abuse category.

Clint was slightly confused as to the mission purpose. So far, he’d ridden in the back of a van for a while, helped set up a temporary base—including a clean room—and had stolen some girl’s ipod. At first, he’d assumed that Coulson was just being super “need-to-know” about the whole thing, but he’d recently begun to suspect that no one actually knew enough about what was going on to talk about it.

Frustrated ignorance was an odd look on Coulson. The man was obviously trying to maintain an air of control over the situation, but everyone was just standing around and fishing for answers. There were some science guys that actually seemed to be doing something, but they were boring to watch.

Resigned to the idea that he wasn’t going to be much use, Clint prepared to suffer through long hours of motionless waiting. He wished he could text or something. Sure, Natasha was off running her own mission, but Dr. Holloway or Kaylie might answer.

But no. The giant hammer (it had literally been a giant hammer, which had thrown everyone for a loop) was interfering with all the tech. He’d be lucky to get a single text off, much less hold a conversation. Instead, he lounged in the security room, watching the fritzing screens and twirling an arrow between his fingers.

“You ever in a band?” Delancey asked him suddenly.

“What? Where’d that come from?”

“Just the way you play with your arrow, I guess.”

Clint opened his mouth in a mock-shocked expression. “Agent Delancey! You know how I play with _my arrow_? What kind of voyeuristic activities have you been getting up to?”

Delancey rolled his eyes while his patrol partner, Jackson, laughed.

“I mean,” Clint continued. “I’ve been known to get involved with some kinky shit, but you should have at least _asked_.”

“Shut up, Barton,” Delancey sighed, but he was smiling, too, while Jackson laughed even harder.

Clint scooted his rolling chair awkwardly close to Delancey and grinned. “Bite me.”

Any further degeneration of their shenanigans was cut short by Terrin and Saddler’s return to the secondary security tent.

“East side’s pretty boring, as per usual,” Saddler yawed. “And it’s starting to rain. Not sure how much more of this state I can handle. Hot as balls in the day and soaking wet at night.”

“Just like me!” Clint exclaimed, because he was on a roll, after all. He lounged in his chair, legs spread wide and a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Nu-uh,” Terrin interjected. “I’m clearly the prettiest belle at the ball among all you junior high wannabes. So, Delancey and Jackson better get themselves out there on the west line. I hear natural rain’s real good for your skin.”

The two in question departed into the newly-pouring rainstorm amid the ringing of companionable laughter. As Jackson flipped them off on his way out, Clint felt a sudden gratitude that Natasha wasn’t there. He’d missed this easy tête-à-tête.

As soon as he’d identified the feeling, he pushed back against it in horror. She hadn’t asked to become a literalistic panic-disposed weapon. Although, the fact that those were the first words that came to his mind to describe her was concerning.

He sunk lower in his chair, the casual comedy of the moment seeping from him. He could taste the guilt in his mouth, and feel it in his chest, and he might be about to throw up. Terrin and Saddler were still bantering back and forth, but his thoughts were filled with her. Filled with the knowledge that, if he told her what he’d just thought, she crawl to him in apology. How she’d writhe in distress for the discomfort she’d caused him.

He ran a hand over his face, working to convince himself it had just been a passing thought and passing thoughts meant nothing.

It was his own fault. He was the one isolating her, most of the time. What was he afraid of, anyway? She could obviously hold her own out there in the real world, making friends out of owners of high-end Italian restaurants. She wasn’t the one holding him back from these kinds of social interactions. He was.

Well, that was going to end right fucking now.

His resolution was no less genuine for its guilt-driven origins. It was, however, interrupted by a sudden announcement over the radio.

“ _Agent down. We’ve got a perimeter breach._ ”

The whole room sprang into action as Terrin and Saddler tried to find the intruder on the near-useless screens. Clint sprinted out of the tent and toward the main structure. He knew that there were a few better angles on the screens in the primary tent, and hell if he wasn’t itching for a fight right now. He craved the adrenaline that would focus his mind.

He pelted across the deepening mud, feeling the suck at his shoes. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of someone in a SHIELD parka moving in a way that just didn’t fit the pattern of well-organized mob of agents.

He slid to a halt in the mud, stopping so suddenly that he lost his footing enough to have to lean over and put one hand on the ground. He struggled to regain his balance, glancing around for the figure again. He wasn’t sure _how_ he knew the man hadn’t belonged, but he’d always trusted his eyes before. Now seemed like a bad time to stop.

There!

He’d been right. The man was backtracking now, unsure of his course. Clint tried to radio in the position, too far away to be able to get there in time, but was met with only static as the figure finally found his way to duck into the white plastic-wrapped enclosure.

Clint hesitated, unsure if he should pursue or continue toward the security booth. He could see his fellow agents getting thrashed, one after the other, as the fight moved down the tunnel, ever nearing the unmovable hammer.

He made up his mind, choosing to instead head for the weapons locker. If the target was so easily dealing with a rash of well-trained combat agents, then Clint would be the most use up in the air. He smirked to himself when the static of the radio managed to let through Coulson’s voice.

“I need eyes up high, with a gun.”

 _Of course you do,_ Clint thought to himself. _And I’m on my way._

When he actually reached the cache, he hesitated for a moment. Coulson had very specifically said “gun,” and it was more than a little windy out there. Maybe a bullet would have less chance to get blown off course. One with a little weight to it.

But then he dismissed the thought. Coulson hadn’t called him out personally, and the bow was just sitting there, beautiful and packed for this mission just for him. Why have it, if he couldn’t use it? Besides, the idea that even a rainstorm could throw off his aim was rather absurd.

He rushed back out of the truck and into the night, twisting to vault himself up into the crane’s hold. He waved the all-clear and then felt his eyes readjusting to the increasing height, getting a better handle on the situation as a whole.

The man was moving north through the tunnels, ever closer to his obvious target. Several agents were already behind him, some struggling to their feet, and some lying still. He could even see Karick lying outside in the mud, having been pushed through the thin plastic walls.

“Barton,” Coulson’s voice broke through the now-constant static. “Talk to me.”

Clint steadied himself on the swaying, though no longer rising, metal floor. He spread his stance, centering his weight and letting the wet metal of the railing held him oriented to vertical as he moved his sight out from himself, toward his prey.

He focused on his prey, who was doing a remarkably good job at moving forward, despite whatever Coulson threw at him.

“You want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?”

“I’ll let you know.” The lack of a rebuke at the sarcastic quip let Barton know more than the actual answer. This guy was impressive, and moving with a single mindedness that was getting a little entrancing.

Clint traced the movements below him through the sight on his bow. Something about the man’s movements was reminding him of Natasha. Not the fighting style itself—this was all power and she was all fluidity—but the determination was the same. A confidence that reflected outward.

He was struck by the sudden desire to pit them against each other, honestly unsure who would come out on top. Thank goodness this guy wasn’t killing anyone, or he’d already have had to take the shot.

Clint continued to watch the incident unfold, a brief scrap with a man he didn’t know by name, but had a stalwart enough reputation. The blond came out on top anyway, continuing toward the hammer with a cocky swagger Clint found himself envying.

And then he was standing before the hammer, hesitating, now that he had reached his goal.

“Better call it, Coulson. ‘Cause I’m starting to root for this guy.”

He wasn’t exaggerating either. The world these days was just too damn dirty. Sucked down and filled with vile truths that drained the heart out of life. He, and so many he knew, had struggled against a darkness inside them that deepened with every life lost and horror uncovered.

But this guy?

Something about this guy made Clint want to follow him into battle, because how could even war be ugly when under this man’s command?

He tried to shake off the thought, refusing to let himself hesitate to take the shot, should he need to. He drew his bow back a little further, thumb brushing the side of his face just in front of his ear. Grounding himself.

“Last chance, sir.”

“Wait. I wanna see this.”

Clint blinked in relief at the hold order, both mollified and inspired to know that the entire make-shift base felt something akin to what he was feeling.

Their whole world froze as the man reached out.

And strained. And added a second hand. And strained again, tendons bulging and cocky grin whipped off into a grimace of first exertion and then desperation. No one moved until the man fell to his knees in the mud.

Clint couldn’t help but feel as though the world had somehow darkened around him.

***

Clint lounged in a chair in the main security office, one foot up on the edge of a computer desk and the other tapping impatiently against the floor. He was watching Coulson talk at the nameless man, who wasn’t so much as blinking in response. Except, Clint had seen silence as an anti-interrogation technique, and that wasn’t what this was. This was despair.

The whole thing was leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He wanted to go home. He wanted to crawl into his apartment and find Natasha curled up with a book in some language he’d never heard of. He wanted her to wrap her arms around him and soothe him into stillness.

Coulson came out of the room to compose a message to be sent back to Fury.

“Get your foot off the desk,” he said as he walked past.

Clint didn’t obey, didn’t even acknowledge the order, and Coulson let it go. Possibly because he was too busy to care, but possibly because he could sense how close Clint was to the edge. Either way, Clint let himself sink into waiting, tapping out rhythms with his foot until his muscles started to cramp and he stood up suddenly.

“Got a job for you,” Coulson’s voice broke through to him.

“Anything.” Anything to get out this place. To breath. Someplace where he could text Natasha, even if she was still busy.

“Good. I need you to follow that Donald Blake guy.”

“Donald? His name is Donald?”

“Probably not. His ID came up fake.”

“Wait. Follow him?” Clint glanced up at the room which had previously housed…Donald, apparently. Shit. He had been so out of it that he hadn’t even noticed.

“We let him go just now, with an apparent friend. Same people we borrowed that research from actually. So I advise you stay out of sight.”

It wasn’t exactly the mission he had in mind, lone surveillance meant that he’d have to struggle to keep his thoughts on his job. But it was still better than nothing.

“Hey, Coulson?” he asked, causing the man to turn around and look at him again. “Any idea how long we’ll be here?”

“As long as it takes, Barton.” The answer was gentle, but a reprimand nonetheless. Clint clenched his teeth in chagrin, nodded his head once, and disappeared out into the night.

***

Donald—gods that better not be his real name—and one Erik Selvig had ended up going into what was pretty much the wretched city’s only bar. Which wasn’t exactly the next predicted move on the classical foreign spy to-do list. Still, Clint perched himself on the building across the street and kept his watch. The night was cold, even though it was dry, and Clint found himself wishing he could go down and get a drink himself.

The night stretched on as the poor scientist quickly found himself drunk under the table. If “Donald” had any sense, he’d make the guy leave pretty soon. Get some water in him, and a good night’s rest. Although, a hangover appeared inevitable at this point.

Clint laughed to himself, delighted by his own youth, and nearly jumped out of his skin when someone behind him on the roof echoed the laughter.

He twisted quickly, trying to get his bow drawn and cursing himself for not thinking to grab handgun. He had a couple knives but—

He froze when he saw who was on the roof with him. He stayed splayed on the floor in the middle of rolling up into a defensible stance. His bow was half-drawn and he tried to focus on the sharpness of the string biting into his fingers but it wasn’t enough to ground him.

“Hey, kid,” his brother grinned. As if this wasn’t Clint’s first time seeing him in a decade. “You’ve become a hard man to find.” As if Barney had been the one to wake up to discover his own blood had vanished into the night.

He forced himself to let the bow relax, struggling to his feet soon afterward.

“Seriously,” Barney continued. “Where have you been? Underground or something? I was pretty sure you had an apartment near D.C., but I had eyes on the place for a while. Didn’t see anyone for a long time, and then there was this redhead. _Way_ too hot for you. I obviously had the wrong place.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t try and say hi to her.”

“Oh? How do you know I didn’t?”

“Because she’d have killed you.” He waited until the gravity of the words sunk in, and then asked, “Why are you here, Barney?”

“No love for your older brother?”

“Forgive me, if it’s been slowly draining away for several years yet.” He glanced back down and across the street. “Also, I’m working right now.”

“Oo!” Barney face lit up. “You’re pulling a job? What is it? I won’t try and muscle in or anything, I swear. I just wanna know what my baby bro is up to these days.” He practically skipped forward to lean over the edge of the roof next to Clint. “So, what is it? Con? Heist? Something more interesting? Is your mark down there?”

“Do you ever shut up? And none of the above. I’ve made my way back to the other side of the law. Above the board.” He considered back through the last few years. “Ok, mostly above the board.”

“Mostly above the board is pretty much our family legacy.”

Barney probably hadn’t meant for the sentence to sting, but it brought back an unexpected childhood flash. Some screaming, more cowering, lots of hiding under beds and behind doors. Coming up with a thousand explanations for the bruises that weren’t so easy to cover up.

_Why are you always wearing long sleeves?_

Worse, the images threatened to open up other memories. Cold cells in underground prisons where it was easy to forget that people you trusted had promised they’d always come for you.

“Will you just get the fuck out of here? Jeez, doesn’t anybody call before they show up anymore?”

“Wow. Didn’t mean to offend. Honestly, I came down here with a job offer.” He elbowed Clint in the side playfully. “I was hoping you’d kept your skills up. Looks like it. Nice bow, too. Pretty little thing. Military grade?”

Even without the bow’s scope, Clint could see that Selvig and the strange man had gotten up from the bar. Well, the man had gotten up. Selvig was currently being carried.

If his targets were on the move then he was going to have to move, too. And having Barney in tow for a mission, even an observation-only one, was not high on Clint’s to-do list. Especially since observation-only missions didn’t always stay that way.

“Can you just go the fuck away, Barney? Send a text message or something. Like a normal person.”

“Don’t have your number.”

“Yeah, well. You found me on a rooftop in The-Middle-Of-Nowhere, New Mexico, so I’m guessing you can figure it out.”

“Don’t be like that. I mean, I gotta say, kid. I expected a nicer greeting. All things considered.”

“All things considered?” He walked along the roof edge, keeping his eyes on his targets. “What things? What, like I owed you a debt for looking after me? So it was totally fine to just skip out in the middle of the night.”

Barney at least had the decency to shift uncomfortably at that. “I knew you’d want to come with me. And I knew the best thing for you would be to stay with the circus. Figure yourself out. You didn’t need me anymore.”

“You were my protector! My family and my friend! What did I do that made you think I didn’t need you anymore? What did I do?”

When he later looked back at the footage of the incident, caught in a random traffic camera, Clint was pretty sure the next few moments were an accident. Barney reached out to put his hand on Clint’s shoulder, but Clint had already been balanced precariously close to falling, trying to recover eyes on his target. The unexpected touch on his arm caused him to instinctively shy away from it. He lost his balance, one foot slid off into thin air, and the rest of him followed behind.

He twisted around to try and catch the ledge with his hand, but it brushed by his fingertips. He did get a flash of Barney’s horrified expression, but it was quickly swallowed in the rush of night air. Then he was staring up at white walls to the gentle beeping of a heart monitor.

“Am I alive?” he groaned up at whatever type of medical professional was standing over him.

“For the moment. Although, you did certainly sustain some damage. Concussion, some rib fractures, and several lacerations and contusions. You took the fall remarkably well, all things considered, but we haven’t done any imaging yet.” She had a white coat on. So, doctor then.

“Yeah,” Clint echoed. “All things considered. Who picked me up?”

“You’re team got concerned when you didn’t check in. Came to look for you and found you in the alley.”

“Anybody with me?”

“No.” The woman shot him an inquiring expression. “Should there have been?”

“Would have been nice of him.” He started to reach his arm out to the side, intending to grab the water glass he saw there on the counter, but froze when the doctor spoke quickly.

“Oh, you really shouldn’t move around until we’ve at least got a chest x-ray. I wasn’t kidding about your rib fracture.”

“I’ve had broken ribs before,” he informed her, continuing to reach. Which was when he felt a sudden dull pain in his shoulder, that progressed alarmingly quickly down to his chest.

“What just happened?” the doctor snapped.

“Uh, I’m fine,” Clint tried to reassured her, but she shook her head sharply, motioning over a nurse.

“You are not fine. I literally _saw_ the color drain out of your face. Are you having any chest pain?”

“A bit.”

“Shortness of breath?”

“Well, now that you mention it.” It was getting harder to breath, even though he could feel his diaphragm moving just like it always had.

“Congratulations,” the doctor snapped. “By continuing to move against my specific advice, you have injured your pleura. You have a pneumothorax. In layman’s terms, you just collapsed your lung.”

“Your bedside manner kind of sucks.”

“Been working for SHIELD too long. Agents make the worst fucking patents.”

“Fair enough. What happens now?” It was definitely getting more difficult to breath, which was kind of panic inducing, which was making it more difficult to breath. It was a vicious cycle Clint had never wanted to be a part of.

“You get to have surgery. As in, pretty much right now.”

“Oh. Great.”

“You’re telling me. Anyone you need us to contact first?”

The image of Barney flashed through his mind, and he rolled his eyes at himself. “Agent Natasha Romanoff. You should tell—actually you know what. Don’t tell her. Don’t tell her anything. No one contact her. Do not put this surgery in the SHIELD files. Do not put it on any databases. Do not allow any paper trail regarding my injuries to reach her until I have come out again, lucid enough to call her.”

“You know I can’t do that, right?”

“Ok, fine. Then let me talk to her right now.” His little speech had worn him out, and he was panting roughly. The doctor walked about to the head of the bed and handed him an oxygen mask, turning the machine up to a litre.

“I’ll do what I can,” she told him. “But right now, you need to get an x-ray.”

***

“I’m going to be fine, Nat. The x-ray was pretty unconcerning. Excepting the need for surgery, obviously, but everyone’s anticipating a full recovery. And I’m not lying to you, I swear.”

“I would know if you were lying to me.” She could hear the intensity of the truth in his voice. Right along with the panting shallow breaths and the bustle of a medical facility behind him.

“Ok, listen Nat, I gotta go. They’re literally trying to take the phone out of my hands and—will you just give me 30 fucking seconds?—and I’m totally going to be fine. This doctor reminds me of you a little bit, so I’m in good hands. Seriously, best technology right here, best docs, too, and—”

There was the sound of a weak struggle, and then the line clicked into silence. Natasha slowly took the phone away from her ear and stared at the wall. She was waiting for the withdrawal. The darkening sinking feeling where she lost time and would probably stop breathing if it weren’t for her own body’s memory. She wanted to blink and miss the sunset; blink against and not remember what day it was.

She closed her eyes slowly and then reopened them to…nothing. It was still 3:34am and still Tuesday.

She tried again, waiting with her eyes scrunched tight, and reopened them. 3:35am, but still Tuesday.

The edges of her vision weren’t darkening, but instead becoming more clear. She felt the strain of her eyes dilating, her heart rate picking up, and her breathing trying to become ineffectively shallow.

No. Absolutely not. She was not sitting here in Clint’s apartment having a _fucking panic attack_. What good was that going to do? At least shutting down into a non-functional stupor had the painful advantage of making time pass quickly. Even if it did take days for Clint to coax her back to normal afterward.

She stood jerkily, trying to work off the nervous energy and get ahead of it. What were some relevant beta-blockers? Propanolol? She’d recently read something about athletes and performers illicitly using that to reduce any jittery feelings.

She pushed the thought away, knowing what Clint’s opinion of the idea would be, although, she might try it anyway if things got any worse.

Propanolol was probably too generic anyway. Lower her blood pressure and do all sort of other things to her sympathetic nervous system. She already felt like throwing up as it was; she didn’t need to tempt fate.

Her phone buzzed and she glanced down at the notification. She’d created a program to ping her whenever Clint’s name got mentioned in any SHIELD files. That was probably his medical file. A little late.

Nevertheless, the slid into the desk chair and opened her laptop. She may as well get a look at the SOAP note. Look over the x-ray. Things like that. Her medical knowledge was woefully inadequate for such an activity, but maybe reading up would distract her from the emergency surgery going on a few miles away.

Once she had the computer open, though, a different task popped into her head. It was simple work to hack the files of the trainees currently at the Center. Simple enough that she frowned at the glaring lack of protection. Even if those students hadn’t finished their training, they were still valuable. In fact, a training center would probably be on her top 5 list of SHIELD infiltration points. Especially with how easy getting into the database had been.

She placed the thought on hold, intending to bring it up with Clint later, and focused on finding what she’d come for. A few keystrokes later, she had Celine’s SHIELD affiliated cell phone number.

She keyed it into her own phone quickly, and then let her finger freeze over the call button. What the fuck was she thinking? She didn’t even have the first vestiges of a plan in place for this conversation.

So she sat still, waiting for another surge of panic. When it came, she let it push her strategy and common sense to the side, and hit dial.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blink-and-you-missed-it mention of suicidal ideation. Also, deepest gratitude to [spectralarchers](http://spectralarchers.tumblr.com/) for this [ brilliant gifset](http://spectralarchers.tumblr.com/post/102488158527), which inspired the scene below. And thanks to [thisandthatofyou](http://thisandthatofyou.tumblr.com/) for drawing my attention to it in the first place.  
> And, uh, surprise! An OC! (No, seriously, it's a surprise to me, too. The girl had a mind of her own.)

Natasha flashed her ID at the Center guard on her way in. As she passed him, he looked at her like he was going to object, so she stopped and took a couple steps back. She calmly gave him her best, “Don’t you think I know better than you” look, and he wisely let her glide on through.

She’d gone through a sort of ritual before she’d set out for the Center. Hair and make-up and strappy heels. Not the usual ensemble one wears to…whatever this was, but she’d wanted to feel ready for battle. Or maybe she’d just wanted to impress.

If that was true, she really needed to get another system of measurement for “impressed” other than “how likely is it that I could currently lure a man back to his bed.”

She shook the thought off and pushed forward, measuring the weight of her gait by the click of her heels against the floor. She counted the rooms as she passed them, shuddering at the grey of the walls. Was it just a universal truth that all training facilities were that sickly gray? Was it to better hide the blood and sweat smudged across it?

The clacking of her heels slowed and stopped, as she reached her destination. It wasn’t until after she’d knocked on the door, that she remembered Clint was currently under some stranger’s knife. The remembrance triggered a wave of panic and, when the door actually opened, she had to entrust her facial expression to her training. She looked down at a young woman she’d never seen in person, but knew from the files she’d perused.

“I’m looking for Celine Perrault,” Natasha smiled. “This is her room.”

“Oh, yes, she’s here. And I’m Noel, by the way. Noel Harridan.”

“I’m aware.”

At Natasha’s thinning smile, Noel quickly stepped back, opening the door wider, and Natasha spared a quick glance around, as she moved into the room.

It was simple enough set-up, with two plain beds on either side of the room. Each had its own desk and dresser, but little else besides. The bathrooms she’d already seen on her way down the hall.

What was more immediately concerning to Natasha was the sheer number of people in the room. There were people on the floor, perched on the desks, and spinning around in the chairs. And there, right in the middle of a pile of girls lounging on her bed, sat Celine.

“Holy, shit!” someone in the room exclaimed. “Is that the Black Widow?”

Natasha looked pointedly at Celine, and their gazes locked. Pale eyes met pale eyes in a moment of understanding.

“Celine,” Natasha smiled through perfectly reddened lips, “I believe we had an appointment?”

“Oh!” Celine responded, scrambling around girls and out of her bed, fishing around on the floor for her shoes. “Shit, I forgot. I’m sorry.” When she’d gotten herself in a position where no one else in the room could see her face, she winked at Natasha, and then set herself back to pulling on her shoes.

As she flounced her way out the door, she blew a kiss back over her shoulder at the ensemble staring on in jealousy. “Sorry to have to run people, but I’ll be back later.”

She closed the door with a little wave and, when the latch had snicked to, she smiled apprehensively up at Natasha.

“Are you mad?”

Natasha responded by slapping Celine upside the head hard enough to pitch her forward. As the girl took a few steps to regain her balance, wisely moving herself supposedly out of arm’s reach, Natasha asked, “Do you know what that was for?”

“I assume it was for using you as a power play with my teammates in there.”

“Wrong. _That_ —using my status to improve your own standing—was clever. So tell me what made me pissed enough to hit you.” Natasha turned back the way she’d come, walking quickly enough that Celine had to rush to catch up.

“I have no idea. I assumed you’d be mad abo—”

“What kind of half-assed undercover move is a fucking _wink_? Please enlightening me as to its purpose. Did you think I was too stupid to understand what you were doing, and you therefore had to ‘help’ me along to the realization?”

“What? No, I—”

“Then was there some deeper reason there I missed? Something else you were trying to communicate, and I am still wholly unaware of it?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then was it that you were having fun? Sharing a moment between yourself and me, because your arrogance made such a flagrant display worth its risk?” Celine wisely stayed silent, and Natasha continued, “You have my interest for the moment, Celine. Please don’t turn my preference into a waste of time.”

Time. Wasn’t that why she was here? To waste away the minutes until she got a phone call that would determine whether her next shot fired would be into a target or into herself.

_Count backwards from a hundred._

She refocused her attention on making her point to the girl trailing in silence at her side. Something in the way her face was downcast, to look away from Natasha, tore at her.

She tried to convince herself that pain and correction were the only ways she knew to teach. The only ways she knew to achieve an end goal. However, it wasn’t really true. She’d seen another way. Seen it take her from an empty shell casing to a whole bullet.

“Are you going to do it again?” she asked Celine, surprising herself.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then you’ve learned something today. One down, infinity minus one to go.”

Celine glanced up at her, seemingly unsure whether or not she was allowed to smile. Rather than encourage her either way, Natasha turned her attention to the man guarding the exit to where she’d parked Clint’s car.

“Uh, miss?”

Natasha snorted, flashing her ID. “Try again.”

The man swore at himself and shot her a salute. “Ma’am. My apologies ma’am. But you can’t just take an agent-in-training out of here.”

“Try again.”

Natasha kept walking, drawing Celine with her by force of intention. Celine glanced back over her shoulder, expecting to find the man chasing them. He was on his phone, presumably with his superiors, but he wasn’t actively giving chase. By the time anyone did, she suspected they’d have already disappeared into the heart of D.C.

Second lesson of the day, then.

***

They ended up at the outdoor patio of a coffee shop across the city. The clientele was definitively high-class, and Celine obviously felt out of place in her form-over-function uniform, staring down at her untouched latte.

“Tell me something about you,” Natasha interrupted the girl’s self-reflection.

“What do you want to know? I imagine you have quite a lot of information already. I mean, you obviously hacked my file. How was the reading?”

“Is that what you did to me?” Natasha took a careful sip of her espresso and placed the cup and saucer on the glass-top table. “Oh, I like this much better.” She crossed her legs, pushing the already obscene hemline of her dark green dress a little higher, and leaned back against the black wire chair. “Why don’t you tell me what you found out in your search.”

“How about you tell me what we’re doing here instead?”

Natasha’s mouth turned down at the corners, as she contemplated the statement. “Please don’t misunderstand. I made the decision to bring you here solely for my benefit. If there happens to be some value in the exercise to you, then I suggest you shut up and exploit it for as long as the opportunity presents itself.”

Celine shut her mouth with a sip of latte, disturbing the pretty picture drawn on the top in foam.

“Better. Now, how about you answer my question?”

“What did I find out about you? Not much. You were part of Petrovitch’s Black Widow program, and are currently the only participant left alive from the encounter. You defected from the Russian program a little over a year ago, after being won over by one Agent Barton. _He_ was easier to find information on. Apparently, he’s the archer you were referring to the other day.”

“You’d be wise not to speak of him at this moment.”

Celine looked like she’d like to pursue that line of thought, but dropped the matter to continue her answer. “You’ve run many successful missions since your defection, eventually earning yourself Agent status. There are no substantiated accusations of failure within any missions reports or filed complaints. In short, you’re the legend that us fledglings whispering at night, in a vain hope that we’ll one day reach such status.”

“Vain hope indeed. One in a hundred thousand girls has it in them. And even if SHIELD manages to find one that qualifies, their training program is insufficient to bring out that full potential.”

“Why is that?”

“They have a different set of priorities. And I can’t say that that doesn’t have its own successes. I was trained to believe that one flawless individual was the be-all-end-all of any underground organization. However, I’ve recently seen well-coordinated teams accomplish things in days that would have taken me months. Apparently, there’s something to be said for cooperation and mutual trust.” She rolled her eyes and took a wry sip of espresso.

“But you don’t like that?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just that I’m not built for it. I doubt I’d ever be able to work long term as a part of any classical functional team.”

“So, what are you and Agent Barton then?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said ‘classical and functional’ team.”

“Fair enough. So, assuming my database forays were insufficient, where should I have been searching?”

“You wouldn’t have had much luck anywhere, really. I assume you stuck mostly to SHIELD files, but even if you’d tried to trace me outward you wouldn’t have found much. I’ve put a special effort into my trail.”

“And things you put a special effort into stand no chance, hm? But no, for your information, I didn’t stick to SHIELD files. I found Malak’s name in the report about your defection, and traced him back to a transaction between him and an organization in Russia.”

“Impressive. Then I assume you also discovered that that particular organization fell apart after I transferred my loyalties.”

“Sort of. It did lose its structure. Apparently there was some kind of coup in the works. Lots of distrust, lots of backstabbing. However, the core founders did manage to get their feet back under them and launch a restart outside of Novosibirsk. They’re becoming major players again, but they’re also not sticking their necks out.”

Natasha’s throat felt dry. She tried to swallow it away with a bitter gulp of coffee, but it didn’t help. She supposed that was what she got for assuming her presence had been vital to the organization. Or, more likely, that was what she got for shying away from doing any research into the people who had made her.

What kind of weapon was too scared of what they’d find to look for the truth? She supposed this revelation was her punishment.

Outwardly, she cocked her head to the side and nodded slowly. “All right. Very impressive. So, aside from your online experiences, what have you learned today, specifically?

“About you? Or in general? Because in general, I’ve learned how to disobey my superiors and that there’s only time for bragging after the job is finished.”

Natasha answered the impudent smirk with one of her own, as she carefully leaned forward and tipped Celine’s latte forward into its owner’s lap.

Celine gasped at the sudden touch of hot liquid. She stood quickly, holding the soaked fabric away from her skin with one hand and trying to right the spilled mug with the other. An over-enthusiastic waiter appeared with a dishcloth, and he managed to get the whole thing under control, but Celine kept glancing up at Natasha, who calmly sipped her expresso as she watched the events unfold.

When all had been righted, Celine sank back into her seat, bright red from embarrassment and trying to hide the coffee stain so visible on her shirt and pants.

“How am I supposed to explain this? I’m responsible for these clothes.” Her attempt at anger fell flat in the face of Natasha’s obvious indifference.

“I’m sure the write-up will look very pretty next to the one you’re probably getting now for leaving the Center without permission.”

“That wasn’t my fault. That was the fault of a ranking agent.”

“So is the coffee stain.”

Celine fished for an answer there, and came up blank.

The rest of the day’s exchange continued in much the same way. The careful banter back and forth usually ended in Natasha victory, but also in Celine’s education. The girl paid rapt attention, preparing to be able to play the entire day over again in her mind, to glean out any information she might have missed.

Eventually, as the evening began to cool and Natasha’s inner clock told her that Clint’s surgery was likely coming to an end, she brought the conversation to its close. They made their way through the streets to the parking garage, and Natasha pulled the driver’s side door open.

When Celine tried the passenger side door, however, she found it locked.

“You’ll be making your own way back,” Natasha informed her, over the roof of the car.

“We’re in the city. And I don’t have any money. Or an ID. I don’t have anything, and I’m covered in coffee.”

“Less conspicuous than blood. Now, it’s getting late, so I suggest you get started. Also, bonus points if you can get back into the facility and into your room without them catching you. I’ll be monitoring the situation.”

“What do I get if I win?”

Natasha stuttered for a moment at the unexpectedly familiar question, but covered it up before Celine could notice.

“You get the confidence that comes with success. You get to know, the first time your life depends on getting in and out of a building undetected, that you’ve done it before.”

She ducked through the open door into the driver’s seat and shut it against any further discussion.

***

Clint wasn’t exactly surprised to find Natasha at his bedside when he woke up. He was, however, a little impressed at find her so calm. He wasn’t lucid for long, but did managed she reach out and grasp her hand before he faded away again.

The next day or so continued in much the same way. Clint back-and-forthed his way to complete lucidity, and was only mildly disappointed when their first full conversation starting with her lecturing him.

“Dr. Bartlett tells me that you moved against her personal recommendation, causing the tear in the first place.”

“Ok, yes, but that’s keep in mind that the rib was already sitting there. It was all a disaster waiting to happen and really just a coincidence that everything fell apart _exactly_ after she’d given that particular advice.”

“Sure,” Dr. Bartlett snapped, as she readjusted Clint’s oxygen levels. “Because collapsed lungs are _just_ as easy to repair as displaced ribs.”

“Sarcastic little thing, isn’t she?” Clint loud-whispered to Natasha. Dr. Bartlett just rolled her eyes, watched the O2 stats for a moment, and then swept out of the room with the purposeful steps of someone who always has somewhere they’re supposed to be.

“Seriously though,” Clint said. “You seem remarkable calm and together. Lucid. Good things?”

“I found a sufficient distraction technique.”

“Oh?”

“A young girl down at the Training Center. Straight out of high school recruit with a backstory disastrous enough to trump anyone else there right now.”

“You’ve found a kindred spirit? That’s adorable.”

Natasha shifted her position in the chair, pursing her lips and glancing to the side. “The girl is hardly as fucked up as I am. Still, I think there’s more potential in her than the current training regime will be able to unlock.”

“You’ve taken on a protégée? That’s even better.”

“No, I have not! I amused myself for a few hours by giving out some pointers to a girl capable enough to actually learn something from them.”

“Well, I’m sure she’s very grateful. Now, do me a favor and get me out of here.”

“You just had major surgery.”

“Did not. It was a thoracotomy and suture repair. No lobectomy, no blisters, no complications. So wheel me out of here. I hate hospitals, even ones like this. I’ve spent too much time in them after traumatic events, and I can’t handle it. Grab the O2 tank and put it on my bed, and let’s just wheel the whole contraption out of here. Set up a little mini-recuperation room at my apartment.”

“You’re serious?”

“Pretty much.”

“Is this an order?”

Clint sighed exaggeratedly. “It’s not an order as in I want things to go down exactly how I just described it. But yes, on the ‘get me out of here’ part. I mean, I have one of the most effective individuals on the planet at my beck and call. I might as well use that fact to my advantage, no?”

Natasha thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged. “All right. But if I even suspect you’re getting worse, then you’re coming back here.”

***

Clint never did find out what she did after she click-clacked out of the room (why was she wearing high heels?), but he did know that a few hours later he had himself a hospitalized set up in his apartment, complete with O2 monitors, oxygen therapy, and intermittent home visits from a RN. Natasha had self-taught herself a crash course in what to watch out for, some remarkably strong men had managed to get a hospital bed up the stairs, and Natasha had taken it upon herself to play a motherly caretaker.

That was, hands down, the best part so far. He watched her flutter around and try to tuck him in or to adjust the room’s temperature, and the whole thing was making him laugh harder than was probably safe.

“Uh, Clint?” she called at him from the kitchen. He could hear the distress in her voice, and he grinned in anticipation at whatever this new disaster would be.

“What happened?”

“Remember how you said cookies were easy to make? And that even I could figure it out?”

He had to hold his breath to keep from laughing at that. For an overly-competent super-soldier-assassin-spy, she sucked at cooking. He’d joked before about finally finding the limits of her talents, but he hadn’t expected the final revelation to be so _domestic_.

He took a deep breath and pulled the oxygen mask down off of his face, so as to better yell back across the apartment. “Yeah, I remember it clearly. What did you do wrong?”

“Well, let’s just say it didn’t exactly go as planned. And now your kitchen looks like a mess.”

Clint fought away the urge to correct her to “our kitchen” and instead responded, “You know, I’m just concussed. I can still make cookies if you want some.” As if she was making them for herself. As if this wasn’t just one more thing in a long line of ways she’d tried to stretch herself thin in order to do something she thought _might_ make him happy.

“I know,” she sighed. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, technically, I’ll probably be surprised by whatever mess you made of the kitchen.”

She didn’t respond to that, though she did stick her head through the doorway to say, “And you’re not ‘just concussed’ either. You have a collapsed lung.”

“Do not. I _had_ a collapsed lung. They fixed it. Now I just have a concussion.”

“Ok, a concussion and a still-patent hole in your thoracic cavity that runs all the way down to your pleural sac.”

“Technicality. Now, I want to see these infamous cookies. At least take of picture of this kitchen and bring it in here.”

Her mouth twisted up in annoyance, but she was digging her phone out of her back pocket as she made her way back into the kitchen.

***

It was a few days later that he decided to bring up the whole “independence” issue. Her recent voluntary meeting with Celine had done a little to assuage his guilt at realizing he had been stifling her—and himself—from the outside world, but he still thought he needed to bring it up in verbal form.

She was sitting crisscross on the bed—which she still refused to let him get out of more than necessary—and whipping his ass at some complicated Russian card game. She had opted for donning one of his few button ups, and had forgone pants completely. That, added to her hair twisted up into a messy bun, meant she had a thoroughly “just-fucked” appearance about her. Which was deeply unfair, given that she was still filing sex under “unnecessary physical exertion.” He hadn’t had the heart to push the matter (or the oxygen levels, if he was being honest), but he might soon if she kept insisted on such a disheveled appearance.

“What do you do with your free time?” he asked suddenly. “When I’m not around.”

She shrugged, laying down several cards with a smirk that probably meant he’d just lost. “Not much really. Read, research, keep my skills up.”

“Do mysterious favors for high-end Italian restaurant owners.”

“Like I said. Keep my skills up.”

“You ever want to do anything more involved? More you. Get yourself a hobby? Like Celine.”

“I didn’t think you’d considered people a ‘hobby.’ And I told you, Celine was a distraction technique. I have no long term plans for her.”

“Did she get into her room without being caught?”

Natasha looked like she didn’t want to answer, but the words forced themselves past her lips. “Yes, she did. Still got written up, but I imagine she’s still rather smug about the whole thing. The girl could stand to think a little less of herself.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

She bristled at that, saying, “I have a perfect handle on my physical capabilities. I don’t put my skills on a pedestal. They’re _already_ on a pedestal.”

“I have a photo of my kitchen on my phone that begs to differ.”

She didn’t answer, staring down at the cards spread across the bed until Clint gave up and took his turn. They played in silence for a few moments, until Natasha had clinched her victory and swept the cards back up to shuffle them again.

“So, promising trainees aside, what would you like to do with your free time?”

“I spend my free time with you for a reason.”

“And I’m saying I don’t think that’s a good idea anymore. The whole 24/7 thing had its purpose, but you do fine on your own when you want to. You develop connections with the Italian mob, you break girls out of military bases, and I’m sure you can handle yourself out there long term. You _choose_ to spend all your time with me. You don’t _need_ to.”

“Isn’t that the point. You’re asking me what I’d choose to do with my free time, but you just said it yourself. I choose this.”

Clint pulled the cards out of her hand and threw them across the room. They hit the floor and skittered outward in a gentle chaos. Natasha stared down at her now empty hands, quiet and still, waiting for a more painful consequence from Clint’s annoyance.

“You can’t just dismiss this. You can’t become me! I am me, and you are you. We’re suffocating each other like this.”

The silence stretched indeterminately, until Natasha’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out out of habit, and then furrowed her brow as she read the message.

“They want me on a mission. It’s not for a few days, so you should be up and about by then. But it’s going to take a little bit of prep work. Research, mostly.”

Clint let their conversation drop. He knew she’d be thinking about it for some time yet, and didn’t see a need to push the matter further. “What’s the mission?”

“Infiltration. Information gathering. Pretty low-key stuff. Big-name target, though.”

“Who?”

“Tony Stark.”

Clint struggled to sit up at that, giving up the effort when Natasha placed one hand on his chest and gently pushed him back down. “Billionaire playboy. And smart as fuck, so don’t let his act fool you.”

“So I’m gathering. But ‘playboy’ opens up all sorts of possibilities to me. Shouldn’t be too difficult.” She frowned suddenly. “Except for this woman. Pepper Potts? She looks like she’ll be a little more perceptive.”

“Maybe you’ll make a friend.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for stuff like humiliation, bondage, subspace, ect. Safe, sane, and consensual, but kinda rough all the same.

“Honestly, I’m torn,” Clint sighed, and Natasha glanced up from where she was arguing with her pantyhose. “On one hand, I’m certainly not going to mind watching you go in _that_ skirt. It doesn’t leave much to the imagination. On the other hand, Tony Stark has a much better imagination than I do.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, returning to her struggle. “Jealous?”

“Should I be? Don’t answer that. Instead, tell me your play. You’ll have, what? Two minutes while you’re getting him to sign Pepper as CEO? How are you going to get him to hire you that quickly?”

“Well, the skirt’s the first play.”

“Oh, great.”

“And Pepper’s the second. I only have to get his attention enough for him to make one comment to her, and she’ll do most of the work for me.” She got to her feet and slipped into a pair of shoes which were only practical if you wanted to put someone’s eye out with the heel. “Really, the man just does whatever he’s told he can’t.”

Clint traced her up and down with his eyes. “I guess. Like I said, though. Not sure what I think of that skirt.”

She crossed the apartment, opening the front door and then turning to stand in the doorway. “Focus on the ‘love to watch you go.’ Maybe it’ll hold you over till I get back. Assuming you take it slow enough.”

She smiled sweetly when he rolled his eyes, and then closed the door.

Once she had the solid wood separating him from her, however, she let herself shudder gently. Much as she’d been excited for SHIELD to trust her with a long-term undercover assignment, she wasn’t excited about the nights she’d be spending alone. New York was just too far to commute on a daily basis, especially on a job with such potential for late night emergencies. And then Clint, of course, was still too unstable to travel.

She wasn’t about to throw a fit about it, though. SHIELD had been remarkably understanding about her situation, all things considered. It was time she sucked it up and remembered how to handle herself on her own. If her conversation with Clint a few days ago had been any indication, he’d appreciate her stretching her wings just as much.

***

“How is he doing?” she asked Coulson, as she dropped her bag on the cot in the back of the observation room.

“Still dying. Worse, it’s looking like he might not be trying to do anything to stop it.”

“Is it possible that he’s not trying because he’s not able?”

“It’s Tony Stark,” Coulson sighed. “It’s unlikely.”

“You seem more enamored with the guy than I’m inclined to be. In my experience, people will do whatever it takes to ensure their own survival. If he isn’t doing anything about it, then he doesn’t think there’s anything to be done.”

“Well then, I’m very interested to hear your explanation for why you consistently find yourself getting in-between Agent Barton and any bullets that might be headed his way.”

“Weren’t you listening? People do whatever it takes to ensure their own survival.”

Coulson watched her for a while after that, staring so unashamedly that it started to make her uncomfortable.

“Something you need?” she snapped.

“One day, you’re going to be standing on the edge of a decision with consequences so profound that you’ll feel shaken by the truth of your own existence. You’re going to watch your priorities shift in front of your eyes, and suddenly find yourself free of the weights you didn’t even know were there.”

“I’m not following you.”

“I just saying, I hope I get to see it happen. Whoever tries to stand in front of you on that day can pray to all the gods there are and not one of them will dare to risk your wrath.”

“Like every other day then,” she deflected.

“Trust me. You’ll know the difference. Now, about Tony Stark. Your appointment with him is in twenty minutes, and there’s a car waiting outside. I trust you had time on your flight to familiarize yourself with the situation?”

“More than. I have to ask though. Natalie Rushman? Do you people think I’m incapable of remembering a more differentiated cover ID name, or is your team just not that creative?”

“You seemed to have an attachment to your name. We thought something familiar in the face of such an extended…separation… Well, suffice to say, we thought it would be nice.”

She bit back her reply, concerned that any sarcasm on her part might start him on another uncomfortable and unintelligible string of compliments. Which was odd. She didn’t usually give a fuck what anyone besides Clint thought.

God, if this was a side-effect from the various socializing activities she’d recently found herself participating in, then she was never going to leave the apartment again.

***

The first time Natasha got a chance to video call Clint was after the disaster in Monaco. Since Clint had honestly been planning out how to best ask for a strip show without sounding like a pervert, he was a little thrown off by the sheer vitriol that came at him from the screen as soon as the connection was made.

“I’m going to fucking kill Tony Stark myself, and this whole mission is going to become completely irrelevant. It’s not even personal! I just need this mission to be over and it looks like he’s going to be the price!”

“Uh, please tell me that you’re not serious.”

Natasha rolled her eyes at the camera. “No, I’m not serious. I’m pissed. I’m losing control of the situation. I am supposed to be ten steps ahead of this man, and I just can’t get there. And you know _why_?”

“Uh, why?”

“Because _he_ doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s going to do in the next ten seconds. I fly out to meet him in Monaco, and I’m honestly a little proud of myself. I’d had him running around in my little maze like a fucking rat. He was _mine_. And within the first ten minutes of his arrival I’ve done nothing but get him a corner table while he’s managed to piss off Pepper, Christine, Hammer, and his own racecar driver. How’d he piss off his racecar driver? Go on. _Ask me._ ”

“I’m kinda scared to.”

“Because he drove his own fucking racecar. He drove his own fucking racecar! Too late for me to do anything about it, because I’m arguing in French with the world’s most stubborn head waiter, all over a corner table. So, I fetch the fat bodyguard, thinking I’m trying to save this little suicidal asshole from a car wreck, and I get back to find he’s being attacked by an electrified octopus from hell!”

“An octopus from hell.”

“From Siberia, specifically.”

“Uh, I’m assuming Stark did not die in this ill-fated octopus attack?”

“If he had, _at least I’d be on my way home._ And you know, the funny thing is that my original plan involved getting rid of Potts? Don’t look at me like that, I don’t mean in the permanent way. I was just going to send her running after some well-placed emergencies. Maybe delay her plane a few times. Just little things to give me time to get into Stark’s files, his head, and possible his bedroom.”

“Please no.”

“Only as a last resort, trust me. I’ll do whatever I need to do to avoid it, because I am legitimately terrified that whatever he’s made of will rub off on me.”

“I’ll take what I can get. So why isn’t distracting Potts your primary plan of action anymore?”

“Because I need this company up and running, and I need Tony Stark alive, and I am completely convinced that if Potts stops paying attention for all of two minutes, this entire empire will fall apart with such finality that it will never rise again.”

Clint sat still with wide eyes, watching Natasha breath heavily in lieu of her rant. “So, have you never done a baby-sitting job before or something?”

“It not a question of whether or not I’ve done a job like this before. It’s about whether or not there is anyone else in the world quite like Tony Stark. He’s selfish and self-destructive, and worst of all, he’s so fucking smart. He’s a fucking genius. Most of my usual plays will only make him suspicious, and I closed off Potts as an ally with my very first move. I should have aligned myself with her.”

“She doesn’t seem like the kind of person to hold a grudge.”

Natasha thought it over for a moment and then nodded decisively. “You’re right, of course. That’s really the only reasonable play at this point. I’ll have to redirect my efforts to getting Stark under Potts’ thumb. She’s obviously the only person on earth capable of handling him.”

She signed off then, leaving Clint staring at a dark screen. His mouth opened a little, at the shock of her disappearing without asking permission. He knew that she usually sank herself deep into her covers, enough that their personalities mixed together into hers, but that was still a pretty bold move. She’d led the conversation, hadn’t asked him if he needed anything, and had logged off of her own volition.

He pulled out his phone and typed out a text to Coulson.

_Did you do this on purpose? Create a persona for her that was just close enough to her actual personality and job that they’re bleeding into each other? I don’t know if I should be pissed about it, or not._

While he was waiting for a reply, he shot off a text to Natasha, too.

_I’m not mad, but I hope you realize that if our next call doesn’t involve the best strip show ever, I will just have to fly out to wherever you are and get one in person._

She responded almost immediately.

 _I’m not opposed to a strip tease. I’ve always wanted to see you dance._ Clint eyes widened at the audacity, and then crinkled in amusement at the message that quickly followed.

 _That was out of line. I’m sorry. Of course I’ll dance for you._ And then the next one, _I’ll spread myself wide for you._

He thought for a while over his response, trying to be quick enough that Natasha wouldn’t have time to panic, but wanting to be sure of what he said.

Eventually he went with, _Natalie, don’t worry about it. Do whatever you need to do._

He waited for a while after that, but there were no more responses.

As the emptiness stretched on, he told himself that using her self-empowered cover ID’s name had been a masterful stroke. He told himself that he’d rather have some of her than none of her. He told himself that Coulson was right, and she needed to get out more. Hell, he himself had been thinking the same thing just a few days ago.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel like he was losing something he’d soon regret letting go.

***

Natasha ended up having to destabilize Stark completely. He’d been too far gone by the time she’d been brought in to the job, and it had ended up being easier to just accelerate his journey over the cliff. That way he hit rock bottom before he actually died of that fucking palladium. All it had taken were a few carefully chosen words and he’d derailed his own party into a literal disaster zone.

Although, it was also fair to note that the whole thing had gone a little further than expected. When it came to a complete breakdown, Stark had done what he always did. He’d excelled.

The plus side was that Colonel James Rhodes had managed to make off with one of the suits, and the intel that Natalie had been able to gather indicated that Stark had been more willing to let him leave with it than not.

The not-so-plus side was that the media had descended into a frenzy. Everything about the entire escapade had done nothing but damage to Stark’s company, and it looked like he was going to have to get himself together before Potts would so much as speak to him.

At least Natasha had finally gotten to break her cover to Stark. After that little donut shop meet-and-greet, she’d finally been able to drop the cute and fluffy persona when she really needed to strong arm him.

Seeing the Director at work hadn’t been bad either. Having personally exhausted herself keeping up with Stark for the few days she’d been shadowing him, it was more than a little impressive to see Fury cut him off at every verbal turn.

Stabbing him in the neck with that syringe had been fun, too. Not to mention placing him firmly under house arrest. Although, she suspected Coulson was the one getting more satisfaction out of that one.

God, she’d barely been able to handle the man for a week. How Coulson had managed his on-and-off management of Stark over several months was beyond her. She guessed she should probably stop assuming everyone she worked with was incompetent until proven otherwise.

***

“Are you ever going to tell me why you literally speak Latin?” Pepper suddenly asked her.

Natasha considered her answer carefully, as she closed the file Pepper had just signed and pulled out the next one. That was the first thing Pepper had said to her since Tony’s party, and she wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.

“My advisor recommended that I pursue a skill that would set me apart. I wanted to learn kickboxing. My advisor wanted me to learn website design.”

“So you somehow decided to meet in the middle with Latin?”

“Oh, no. I learned all three.” Natasha smiled sweetly.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re an overachiever?”

“Yes. Anybody ever say the same to you?”

“On more than one occasion. It always seems to be the first thing out of a man’s mouth when he isn’t sure where he stands with you.”

“Mmm,” Natasha agreed. “You know what I’ve found to be the most effective method of ending that particular conversation? You smile at them demurely and say ‘Only by your standards sweetheart,’ and walk away.”

Pepper smiled in genuine amusement. “I imagine that would work.”

The two of them finished shuffling around the current paperwork, and Natasha started to make her way back toward the door, constantly reviewed and re-organizing the list of prioritized tasks she held in her mind. Once she reached the doorway, however, she turned back.

“May I ask you a question in return, Miss Potts?”

“Seems fair.”

“I’ve worked for a lot of men who couldn’t keep their eyes on my face, and I haven’t been afraid to use it to my advantage. By default, I’ve ruined a lot of relationships.”

“I’m waiting for a question, Miss Rushman.”

Natasha walked back across the carpet until she was standing in front of Pepper’s desk again.

“Why weren’t you threatened by me? You were annoyed and angry, and I heard you warn him several times about sexual harassment lawsuits. But I’ve seen fear in women’s eyes just as often as I’ve seen lust in men’s, and you didn’t have it. Why not?”

“You’ve pretty much answered your own question. Do you know why Tony hired you?”

“Because it would annoy you.”

“Because you were interesting. Because you were a new toy. Because of how it would affect me. Even his half-assed flirtatious pursuit of you was still about me.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Then why ask?”

“I wanted to be sure you knew,” Natasha answered. “Otherwise, my apology wouldn’t make much of an impact. I like this job, and I like you, and I think I might actually genuinely sorry for the part I played in increasing the tension between the two of you. And trust me, guilt is a new feeling for me.”

“Doesn’t taste very good, does it?”

“How does anybody stand it for more than a few seconds? I thought I was going to throw up.”

“That’s still the most round-about overly-generic apology I think I’ve ever heard,” Pepper admonished.

“Well, I haven’t had a lot of practice. How about a peace offering instead?”

Pepper leaned back and considered Natasha, crossing her legs and trying to get a read on the redhead before her. “I’m listening.”

“Well, the Sturkov group just made a move on realigning most of your Chinese investors with his bid for privatization of the pharmaceutical development that you were planning on using.”

“This is hardly news.”

“Well, it’s odd that Victor would be able to make such a move. His power exists because he’s the acting representative for his niece, Vasilisa. Oddly enough, Vasilisa’s death certificate was filed several months ago. It was quickly retracted as a ‘mistake,’ but no one has seen the girl since.”

Pepper thought for a moment, realigning and adjusting all the schemata of alliances and advantages in her head. “Then the company’s supposed to be in the hands of Anthony.”

“Who has always been remarkably friendly toward the Stark company.”

“Only because he was impressed at how Tony could drink him under the table.”

“Well, statistically speaking,” Natasha laughed, “he has to do something constructive every now and then.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you.”

“Either way, I can have people meeting with Anthony in the next hour, in possession of the considerable evidence as to his new inheritance. Even if he doesn’t side with you—”

“The chaos will give us enough time to solidify our bid. Get it in the works, then.”

Natasha turned to leave again, but Pepper’s voice stopped her. “Wait. I also want you to send someone to talk to Victor. Tell him about our newest realization. We won’t be his primary concern. If I’m right, he’ll focus on redirecting the funds he’s been embezzling into his private company outside of Tyumen. If the authorities are ready for him, they’ll be able to catch him in the act.”

“You want him arrested?”

“Not particularly. But I have a friend within the law enforcement there that I could use a favor from, and he’s been after Victor for years.”

“Absolutely. Any other birds you’d like to kill with this stone?”

“Nothing’s coming to mind at the moment, but I’ll let you know if inspiration strikes.”

“I’ll be at your beck-and-call.”

“Can’t say I don’t like being on the other side of that.”

“I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.”

As Natasha made the run down to the first floor to secure the necessary paperwork for Pepper to look over, she passed Tony on his way up, box of strawberries in his hands.

She almost stopped him and reminded him that strawberries were literally the only thing that Pepper was allergic to. But then, he’d broken house arrest. He really didn’t deserve her help.

***

Clint had been sleeping fitfully, if at all. He’d heard that the Stark thing had completely degenerated, watching the story unfold on the news from his apartment, but that had only made him relieved. Good as she might be at subterfuge, he knew she was happier with a clear target and a weaponized objective.

What was making him lose sleep was his growing apprehension. He’d had to pull her out of undercover IDs before, but most of them had been submissive to a fault. Even in the few situations where she’d been someone a little stronger, Clint himself had been there within the cover, making it easier to reconnect.

He threw himself fitfully into bed, working hard to convince himself that screaming into his pillow wouldn’t exactly solve anything. However, even when forcing himself to lie still, it was hours before he could calm his mind enough to sleep.

When he suddenly woke up sometime later, his first thought was to how he still hadn’t figured out what he wanted. His second thought was that there was someone sitting on the edge of his bed.

He threw himself up into sitting position, ready to decide his next move when he discovered how his attacker was armed. Except, his quick motions stilled when he recognized the familiar figure watching him closely.

“Oh, thank god,” he breathed, scrambling forward onto his knees and dragging her into a kiss. He sucked at her greedily, desperately, hoping to taste her and hoping she could taste him back.

She didn’t need any more encouragement to get into it with him. She moved one of her legs up onto the bed and kneeled on it, using the angle and leverage to push back against him until neither of them could see anything but the other.

“Did you fly straight here?” he panted between kisses. His hands were everywhere, roving up and down her body. He tried to dig his fingers in under the hem of her shirt, but found the ridiculously tight waist of the pencil skirt wouldn’t give way.

“Pepper lent me a jet,” Natasha explained. The two of them hovered face-to-face, lips almost touching, and they could feel each breath. “She said it was a better use for it than half of Stark’s.”

“You didn’t get debriefed yet?”

“Of course not. You really want to talk about work right now?”

“No. I want to wrap you up and make you mine.”

She made a noise that was more giggle than laugh and leaned in to bite at his lower lip. Her hands were on him now, playing up and down his bare chest and dipping at the waistband of his boxers. He shuddered in anticipation.

“I have an idea,” she whispered against his ear, more breath than voice. “Want to see how many places on your body I can put my tongue before you can’t hold out anymore?”

“I have another idea.”

She drew back from him a little bit at the uncertainty in his voice. He was clenching and unclenching his hands, tight against his thighs, and his blown-wide pupils watched her face carefully.

She reached up and touched at the back of his neck, curling her fingers softly into the sensitive skin behind his ear and running them all the way down his jawline. “Tell me.”

“I want to tie you up. Wrap you so tight you’ll never be able to move. Not even you. I want you spread out and wound up. Blind and straining. I want your pretty lips around whatever I give you.”

He felt her fingers spasm slightly against his skin, and she moaned softly. “I hope you’ve been reading up then. Because if you want me helpless, you’re going to have to know exactly what you’re doing.”

“You think I want to tie you us so you’ll be helpless? You forget. All I have to do to make you helpless is snap my fingers and order you down. I don’t need winding rope around your wrists. I’m not going to tie you up to make you helpless. I’m going to tie you up to make you _mine_.”

He growled the last word and surged up to claim her mouth back in a kiss. She wrapped her arms around his head, digging his fingers into his hair. Her long moan had devolved into needy little whimpers.

He laughed low, voice holding more threat than promise. “You think you’re going to run your tongue all over me? After I’ve been so deprived of the taste of you? I suggest you hurry to realign your perspective before I have to do it for you.”

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Now strip.”

He left her on the bed, and she hurried to shimmy out of her clothes, tossing them to the floor in a pile. She could see him moving across the room and flinched when he clicked on a low-wattage lamp. By the time her eyes had readjusted, he’d pulled several pieces of asanawa, cut in specific lengths, from a dresser drawer.

She hurried to splay herself on the bed. She lay on her back with one knee bent and the other leg off the edge of the bed down onto the floor. She wrapped one arm around her stomach, letting the pressure push at her chest.

When he turned around, he froze for a moment, eyes tracking all over her as if unsure where to look first. Then his gaze made is way down onto the floor, where her clothes lay disheveled.

“You think you can just make a mess whenever you want? Throw your things on my floor?”

She curled herself up, abandoning her alluring position to follow his line of sight down onto the floor. When she realized he was talking about her clothes, she twisted up onto her knees and prepared to step down off the bed and onto the floor. She froze when Clint snapped his fingers at her.

“Did I say you could stand? Show me what you can do on your knees.”

She slid to the floor, hurrying to pull her blouse toward her and begin folding it. Again, she froze at Clint’s intervention. This time he’d stepped forward to crouch down next to her. He wrapped his fingers in her hair and jerked her head back to look at the ceiling.

“Wow. You’re just full of assumptions today. You want to throw your shit on my floor. You want to stand without permission. And now you think you get to use your hands for this? After I just had to correct you twice? Try again. Fold your hands behind your back and get in some practice with that mouth.”

He untangled his fingers from her hair, but didn’t pull away completely. Instead he let his fingers trail down the ridges of her spine. He paid special attention to the dips between her vertebrae, rubbing each one individually until the skin warmed beneath his friction.

She stared down at the dress shirt, trying to decide how best to approach the task, and then spread her knees wide, folded her hands behind her back, and leaned down. Clint pushed deeper at the spaces of her spine as they widened in the stretch of her curving prone position.

When she first tongued at the sleeve of the shirt, his breath caught and his fingers stuttered in their journey up and down her back. Then he resumed his attentions, watching silently as she mouthed the garment. It was slow going, without hands for balance, as she attempted a task that had never been needed in her skill set. By the end, her mouth tasted like ironed silk and the blouse was more wet than not. When she eventually sat back up, eyes skittering to meet Clint’s, the thing still wasn’t really folded as much as it was aesthetically arranged.

It seemed good enough for Clint, though, who surged forward to take her in a kiss. This time, as his hands ran up and down her body, he found no impediment in the stricture of her clothing, He used the opened access to pull her closer against his body, feeding off the proximity.

As he kissed her, lips and throat and breasts, he reached back behind him on the floor where he found the lengths of asanawa. He broke away then, and pulled her down forward so she lay over his lap, weight distributed between her knees braced on the floor and her upper body braced against Clint’s legs, ass in the air.

She’d kept her hands behind her back, even without being ordered, and he began to wrap the rope about her. He braced the position tight enough that it would pull but not strain. He didn’t intend to let her out of this for some time yet.

He could feel the gentle breathing spread across his thighs, and he leaned to the side to glance at her face. Her eyes were open and she was straining to look at him without turning her head. Finding none of the panic he was partially terrified to find, he returned to his task, looping and knotting the gentle pressure into an increasingly complex system of restraint.

Eventually, satisfied that even she couldn’t escape, he shuffled her off his lap so she lay prone on the floor. He leaned down and kissed her entwined fingertips, moving next to her wrists, and then down to the small of her back. He paused, just at the curve of her ass, letting his hot breath linger in contrast to the feeling against her skin, and then pulled back to crawl around to her face.

Her eyes were still open, but only barely. They were deeply hooded and unfocused. He gently placed two fingers on her neck, feeling her pulse beat steady and slow beneath him. He pulled her head up onto his lap, combing his fingers through her hair and massaging her head.

“Can you hear me?”

She didn’t respond verbally, but her legs shifted against the floor and her heart rate picked up a little. Not enough that he was concerned that she might be at the beginning of panicking, but enough that she was less “coma” and more “subspace.”

He moved her head back down to the floor again, and helped her slowly up onto her knees. She held her own balance, but unsteadily enough that Clint wasn’t about to let her walk on her own. Instead, he ducked down and wrapped his arm around her knees so she was forced to lean forward over him. He stood, carrying her over his shoulder out of the bedroom.

He deposited her on the floor, underneath the set of reinforced hooks they’d set up when she’d first moved in with him. He had to leave her there for a moment, rushing into the bedroom and back again, to fetch the ropes. She didn’t seem to have suffered for the few seconds of absence, though she had regained enough lucidity to stare up at the hooks with a discerning eye.

“You’ve got quite a recovery time on you, don’t you?” he murmured, not expecting a reply.

He carded his fingers through her hair purposefully, pulling it back into a ponytail at the base of her neck. He used of the shorter lengths to tie it like that, keeping it out of her face and giving him an unobstructed view of her.

It was a favor he did not intend to return.

He pulled out a red silk ribbon that he’d grabbed with the asanawa, and carefully positioned it against her eyes. When her sight first disappear, she whimpered slightly, and Clint paused. Her breathing had grown shallow, and a quick touch to her neck revealed that her heart rate had picked up.

He kept still for a while, holding the silk against her eyes himself, letting her feel his hands on her cheek and neck. He waited until she’d calmed again, body relapsing into stillness, before he tied the ribbon off and moved back down her body.

The next cuts of ropes wound around her waist, both supplementing and avoiding the lengths around her arms, depending on where Clint wanted to apply pressure. The longer pieces he wrapped around her several times, knotting it back on itself and winding the loops between her legs and down around her thighs. He counted carefully, marking the quick release points and keeping at least one point of contact with her skin at all times.

When he’d satisfied himself that her arms and anchor points were both secure and undamaging, he flipped her over onto her back. He bent her legs, pulling her heels back toward her ass, increasing the pressure until she was forced to splay her knees open. Even then, he still didn’t stop, continuing the steady pressure, bringing her heels closer and closer until the pressure of the knots and the articulation of her own body made her arch her back up.

Her weight was now on her shoulder blades and feet, each flat against the floor, and Clint hurried to finished the binding. Even if Natasha had the muscle strength to keep that position, he doubted she was fully with it. Her heart rate had dropped back down toward “coma,” and she hadn’t made a sound in some time.

He finished the wrapping around her stomach and up her chest, complete with added security up by her shoulders. Once he’d doubled checked that he had completed the entwinement, he flipped her over again.

Now, the ropes held her in position. Her head hung forward languidly, but her upper body arched up and back toward her legs, which arched back, in turn, toward her head. Clint quickly gathered the ends he’d left loose and adjusted them through the hooks above their heads.

Once he was satisfied, he reached up above them, grasped the soft rope, and pulled. As she rose off the ground he watched her face for anything concerning, but, though her lips parted slightly, that was the extent of her reaction.

He completed the suspension, allocating her to a space in the air that was level with his chest, and tied the contraption off. Then he took the silk off her eyes.

She blinked against the sudden light, slow in her reaction, seemingly unsure of where she was. She also didn’t seem to mind much.

“Look at you,” he breathed, unsure she’d even know he was speaking. “All mine. Trussed up and claimed. Anyone who saw you now would never doubt that you’re my own.”

Her mouth opened slightly and she angled her head toward him as much as she could. It took Clint a moment to realize she was asking for a kiss, but once he did, he granted the request immediately. It was quick and chaste and stole his breath away.

“So tell me, my own, how would you get out?”

She tilted her head back to get a look at him, and said slowly, “There are no weak points. I could only beg.”

It occurred to Clint, that the entire thing had a deep ironic streak. That maybe, this was how little children behaved, when something might be taken from them. Tied it up and hid it away so no one else could touch it.

Maybe this whole thing was pointless. A tantrum to try and make her his, whether she willed it or not.

So he moved in close to whisper in her ear, “Then beg. Beg for my mercy to set you free. Beg yourself away from me. Ask, and I’ll do it.”

“I would rather beg myself in tighter. Wider and deeper and higher. Don’t make me beg myself unowned. Don’t make me make myself abandoned.”

She was wrapped in too many layers of subspace for it to be a lie, and Clint took the first deep breath he’d taken in weeks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be aware, mistreatment and safewording below. And none of you are allowed to be mad at Clint..... Ok, you can be mad, but you can’t STAY mad. Please forgive him. Everyone makes mistakes.

The phone call had been a surprise. She’d known that Clint would keep pushing until she did something, but she’d honestly expected herself to call Celine. At least, with the young girl, Natasha could convince herself that she was paying her dues to some cosmic justice in passing her knowledge on to another young prodigy.

Nevertheless, despite those ready excuses, Natasha was deeply disturbed to find she’d called Miss Pepper Potts.

The first few sentences were incredibly awkward, and Natasha was a few words away from ending the conversation with a firm and final tap to the “end call” button, when Pepper said, “Look, I don’t usually enjoy talking to people on the phone. It takes away so much from the conversation. I’m actually going to be in D.C. in a couple of days, so why don’t we meet up and get coffee?”

“You’re not still angry?”

“With what? With you? Seems unwise. If I’ve learned anything over the last few months, it’s that it pays to have plenty of friends up there in secret organizations that seem to be able to get their hands on all sorts of impossible information.”

Natasha could tell that the statement wasn’t strictly true. She could hear the half-lie in the claim to practicality. She understood the subtle desire for a friendship where nondisclosure agreements wouldn’t be an ever-present impediment. And she was relieved and grateful at the half-hearted excuse that Pepper had handed her.

“You’re a smart woman, Miss Potts.”

“Oh god. Call me Pepper or I’m rescinding the coffee offer.”

“Fair enough. Then I suppose you should probably call me Natasha.”

“As opposed to Natalie? Yes, I’d come to that conclusion. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

Pepper hung up before anything else could be said, and Natasha slowly took the phone away from her head.

“How’d it go?” Clint asked, his concern at the short length of the phone call warring with the fact that Natasha and Pepper had apparently put themselves on a first name basis with each other.

“We’re having coffee day after tomorrow. She’s a remarkable efficient woman.”

“Let me guess. You like that.”

“God, yes.”

***

When the two of them did meet up at the coffee shop, Pepper took clear and obvious pleasure in dismissing her body guards. They attempted  a protest, citing the recent attempts on her life and the lack of security in such a public area, but Pepper just laughed at them and pointed at Natasha.

“If she can’t protect me here, then there’s really not anything you could do.”

Natasha expected to feel a flash of smug satisfaction at the statement, but it was more one of annoyance. How presumptuous for Pepper to assume that Natasha would protect her in a crisis.

Worse, was the realization that it was true. She tried to rationalize that it wouldn’t take much effort to save the small business woman. So why not do so?

Natasha was pulled out of her hypothetical musings when the bodyguards finally departed, and Pepper turned to her with a half-smile. “So, Natasha, then. You baby-sit a lot of eccentric businessmen?”

“My skill set is varied.”

“Is that just a passive aggressive way of trying to get me to direct the conversation away from Tony?”

“How is Tony, by the way?”

“Ecstatic. He’s unduly excited by the idea of AI suits and has already begun trying to implement some sort of interface with his own thought processes.”

“Wonderful. I’ve always hoped the world would come to this.”

“Exactly. Who could have but hoped that New York would soon be filled with remote control suits wandering around and completing Tony’s every whim? I can’t imagine a better financial drain for the company.”

The two of them fell into silence after that, ordering their coffee and taking their seats. After they’d settled, however, Pepper considered Natasha from across the table, eventually asking, “So how are you?”

“Better than I deserve. Yourself?”

“Well enough. I have to say, you spoiled me. I have yet to find anyone as competent as you to replace your position. Not for lack of trying. There are currently three different people working together to play the role that you did. It’s frustrating to have to work through translators whom I’m unfamiliar with. How many languages did you speak again?”

“How many did Natalie speak, or how many do I speak?”

“Hm. Ask as stupid question, I suppose. Forget I asked. How about, instead, you tell me how your job is treating you. You’re actual job.”

“You want to talk about my job?”

“Well, it’s that or the current financial dangers in certain overseas ventures. I take it you’re not exactly comfortable talking about your job, but I don’t think you’d prefer to talk about mine. Even I find it makes for tiring over-coffee conversation. Your current employment is bound to be more interesting. Even the parts you can talk about without breaking any non-disclosure agreements.”

“It’s really not that interesting.”

“Ever been shot?”

“Yes.”

“How’d that go?”

“Fine.”

“You’re really not very good at the small talk thing, are you?”

“I’m currently fighting the reflex to consider you a security threat, since you seem to be fishing for information.”

“I am fishing for information. That’s what friends do, and since you called me, you’re just going to have to continue to war it out with your psychological reflexes. But, to be nice, let’s try a different tact. I assumed that work would be easier than your personal life, but apparently I was wrong. How about, ‘are you seeing anyone?’ That’s a nice acceptable question, isn’t it?”

“I assume you mean the idiomatic ‘seeing anyone’ and are not, in fact, doing a security check.”

“I didn’t follow that, Natasha. I don’t speak spy.”

“Can you not say that word out loud? Ever.”

“My apologies. I don’t speak highly suspicious and paranoid private security.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Forgive me if I assume that, should there be anyone in the vicinity eavesdropping on the conversation, you would have already noticed them and dealt with the issue accordingly.”

Natasha pursed her lips in annoyance, finding herself having to choose between admitting she’d been wrong, or insulting her own skills. Predictably, she re-railed the subject. “I’m currently in a long term relationship with someone at SHIELD. He used to be my handler, actually.”

“Oh, dating the boss are we? Something else we have in common.”

“He’s not my boss anymore. Not at work, anyway.”

“Not at work?”

“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Natalie—Natasha, sorry. Natasha, I never took you for someone shy. Please do spill. Especially if this is going where I think it’s going.”

“You want to talk about sex? Don’t you get enough of that with Stark?”

“Conversations with Tony about sex tend to lead to some ridiculous offers. Many of which, I suspect, deny the laws of physics. And biology. I doubt this conversation will lead any such place with you.”

“It would be a surprise to all parties, I assure you.”

“Wonderful. Now, I’ve been dying for some girl talk. Or whatever equivalent therein you feel qualified to offer.”

“You’re difficult to keep up with.”

“High praise. Is it annoying you or is it a pleasant relief?”

“Haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Fair enough. While you’re thinking about it, why don’t you tell me his name?”

“No.”

“Codename?”

“…Hawkeye.”

“Easy on the eyes?”

“You know, I really wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who would enjoy this kind of conversation, much less continually attempt to initiate it.”

“It seems like a politically safe subject, and heaven knows there are probably few enough of those with you. Plus, I wouldn’t be too quick to jump to conclusions about people.”

“It’s literally my job to jump to conclusions about people.”

“Yet, consider how few people would have pegged you for a sub.”

Natasha’s eyes dilated slightly, much to her chagrin. “I never said I was a sub.”

“You indicated he was the boss in the bedroom.”

“I am delightfully skilled at controlling the play-by-play in the bedroom.”

“So a mouthy and manipulative sub.”

“No.” Natasha uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. “Not mouthy.”

“Just manipulative, then.”

“While I usually have very few filters, I’m not sure this is a subject I want to discuss with you right now.”

“Then you still haven’t decided whether I’m annoying or a pleasant relief.”

“Jury’s still out.”

“I can work with that.”

***

While Natasha had had days that were more exhausting, they usually involved fucked up sleep cycles and heavy artillery. Her conversation with Pepper had contained neither, yet she still felt ready to drop. When she finally got back to Clint’s apartment, she was all the way inside before she noticed the set-up she was facing.

She stopped, just inside the entrance, and let the door swing shut behind her. Her eyes roved over the darkened house and the soft glow of candlelight coming from the kitchen.

“Natasha?” Clint’s voice echoed around the corner. “Is that you? It’d better be you, I’m not really in the mood for a fire-fight.”

“It’s me.” She took a few hesitant steps forward and peeked around the alcove into the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

The rickety card table, which Natasha hadn’t seen used for holding actual food since she’d first set foot in the building, was set with dishes from several different food groups, as well as two lit candelabras. There was even a tablecloth. Or, at least, there was a hopefully clean twin sheet folded in half and substituting.

“And this is?” Natasha prompted.

“Date night. Like, a reward for socializing. Or something. I cooked and everything.”

“I’m terrified.”

“Mouthy today, aren’t we?” Natasha looked up quickly, obviously alarmed, and Clint hurried to ask, “Did I say something wrong? You weren’t out of line.”

“No, it’s just…that’s not the first time I’ve heard that word today. What on earth possessed you to make dinner? I didn’t know you cooked.”

“Hey now. Just because one master assassin who lives in this house can’t cook, doesn’t mean we’re all hopeless.”

“I am not hopeless.”

“You lit the oven on fire.”

“You’re exaggerating! It was barely smoking, and there wasn’t any open flames at all. I’m sorry I just assumed parchment paper and wax paper were the same thing. They’re obviously different, and I know that now.”

“Someone’s cranky.”

Natasha froze for a moment, and then covered her mouth with her hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why, but it’s been really hard to break away from Natalie, and then seeing Pepper today—”

Clint opened his mouth, but Natasha extended her arms and shook her hands at him. “Not that that’s an excuse, I just—I’m sorry.” She looked down at the floor and covered her face, wincing slightly when Clint sighed.

He walked over to her and carefully wrapped his arms around her. “You are tired. And hungry. And Natalie was purposefully close to your actual self. Don’t think I won’t ride Coulson about that later. And don’t think I’m mad at you about it. Just come and eat. We’re taking the day off from roles and apologies. Eat with me.”

“Should I change?” she mumbled into her hands.

“I’m in jeans. Just because there are candles and home-made meals doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up all our traditions.”

He let her go and turned to go back to the table, pulling out the chair for her to sit. She did so quickly.

“We should do stuff like this more often,” he commented, sitting down across from her. “Well, not exactly like this. Don’t get used to the cooking thing. But something just us. Something just us that does not involved explosives or surveillance notebooks.”

“There’s an old hotel downtown that’s been closed for years that we could break into. It has obvious Vladimir Shukhov influences, and I’ve been meaning to get a look inside to see how the theme continues.”

“Shukhov?”

“Mm-hm. Russian post-revolutionary architect? Hyperboloid Tower?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. How is it that you have extensive knowledge of international architecture, but still can’t tell the difference between wax and parchment paper. Why were you even using paper at all? I have cooking spray for a reason.”

Natasha sighed heavily and stood up from her seat.

“What are you doing?” Clint asked, immediately apprehensive.

“If I’m not mistaken, you asked me to eat with you.”

“Yes, I—oh god.” Clint looked up at the ceiling as Natasha stepped one leg over him and sat down on his lap, facing him.

“Isn’t this so much better?”

“Good thing you didn’t change into an evening dress or something.”

“I don’t know. Dresses have some ease-of-access advantages that can’t be argued with.”

“We really should have an actual date some time, you know? Not everything can constantly degenerate into sex. It’s probably on some list somewhere as a sign of an unhealthy relationship.”

“Of course. Just give the order, and I’ll move right off.” She accompanied the sentence with a unsubtle shifting of her legs that rubbed her in a slow slide down and then back up Clint’s lap.

“Manipulative, aren’t you?”

“Manipulative, mouthy, and apparently far too easy to read.”

“Meaning?”

“Nothing important.”

***

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Clint snapped, as he threw the file back down on Coulson’s desk.

“If you want to refuse the mission, then take it up with the Director. And I honestly wish you the best of luck. My estimation predicts the conversation will last 14 seconds.”

“At least admit that you’re doing this on purpose.”

“I’m doing this on purpose. Feel better?”

“No.”

“What a surprise.”

“Yeah well…” Clint trailed off and ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, I just don’t think this is the best thing to be doing for her.”

“You forfeited your rights to make these decisions when you gave up being her handler, Barton.”

“And you’re what? Punishing me for it?”

“Not at all. I admire the decision. I was very proud of you.”

“You have a shitty way of showing it. I held my tongue at the whole Natalie thing. I trusted you to not push her too far, and she barely held on to who she is. Now you want to do this?”

“It’s not all that different from Natalie.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. Exercising her undercover independence is one thing, but giving her cover ID authority over _mine_? Do you have any idea what that’s going to do to us?”

“To us?”

“To her!”

“You said us.”

“Well, I meant her! Don’t Freudian slip me, Coulson. I know damn well what the _fuck_ I’m talking about. You can’t do this to her.”

“Sit down, Barton.”

“I’m not going—”

“Now!”

Clint shut his mouth and dropped into the chair. His eyes were on the floor as he slouched in the wooden chair and no matter how much he told himself that he looked that a 6th grader sent to see the principle, he couldn’t make himself sit up any straighter.

Coulson wasn’t helping the symbolism, sitting on his side of the desk in rapt contemplation of the young man in front of him. Clint glanced up, met Coulson’s stern gaze, and went back to looking at the floor.

They sat in silence until Coulson, unsurprisingly, broke it first.

“Barton, I have been remarkably patient about the entire issue. I have let the two of you find your own way for a very long time now. I have supported and encouraged, and I have lied on official reports. But I work for SHIELD. I do not work for you, much as you might seem to think it. My primary role is not your counselor. It is not your friend. It is not even your handler. My primary job is the betterment and protection of SHIELD. Now, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the world out there, but something is changing. You were there in New Mexico. One day, very soon, we’re going to wake up and learn that many things we think are truths, are not actually truths at all. It will be jarring. It will be disorientating. It will be permanent. Do you understand where I’m going with this?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, _sir_.”

“I need that girl. _We_ need that girl. When all hell breaks loose she is on my list of the ten people most likely to save our asses. But not if she’s running away from the middle of a battle because she’s afraid you’ll get hurt.”

“She’s not stupid. She’s not going to compromise the safety of this world. I live in it, remember? She’s clever enough to know that saving me means saving the world first.”

Coulson leaned back in his chair. “I know a great many very smart people, Barton. I see them every day. And let me tell you, when the fate of the world hangs in the balance, they’re all of them willing throw it away, and instead barter for the fate of the one they love.”

“Love is for children.”

“Did she teach you that? Because I don’t think quoting a conditioned hand-fed assassin is a great life choice.”

“My brother taught me that.”

Coulson leaned forward involuntarily. “I haven’t heard you mention your brother in a long time. What’s the occasion?”

“Am I dismissed?”

“Do you understand the point I was making?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’re dismissed.”

***

“I know you’re upset,” Natasha soothed him, perched behind him on the bed, legs wrapped forward around his waist. She leaned in further over his shoulder, practically riding piggyback as she clung tightly.

“It’s not exactly a hard emotion to distinguish at the moment.”

“Tell me what you’re worried about, and I’ll take care of it.”

“If only it were that simple.”

“It’s always that simple. If you don’t think it’s that simple then you don’t want me to take care of it. Which is ridiculous, because I want to take care of it, and then you wouldn’t be upset and everyone would win, and I can stop clinging to your back like a monkey and we could actually fuck.”

“You have a one track mind.”

“Not true. I have a thousand track mind. There are thousand thoughts winding around each other in patterns so complicated it would make you dizzy just to draw them out. What I have is a one location mind. Every one of those thousand tracks is going one place. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Sorry, pet. I’m a little one location mind myself today. I want to talk about our upcoming mission.”

“The one you told me not to look at?”

“Yeah. I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

“Ready when you are.”

“Come around where I can see you. I’m not going to be able to carry on a conversation like this. Not this conversation anyway.”

Natasha scooted her way around Clint’s body so they were eye to eye. Noses touching as she sat in his lap.

“Better?” she smirked.

Clint’s mouth twisted in frustration, and her smile faded as she realized she’d actually pissed him off. She barely had time to open her mouth to apologize before he stood roughly, dumping her onto the floor.

“You don’t want to have this conversation on equal footing?” he snapped. “Then we won’t. You can have it on your knees, right there.”

The order left a bad taste in Clint’s mouth, even as Natasha rushed to obey. He could practically hear Kaylie’s voice in his head.

_Never in anger._

He took several steps away, letting the grounding sentence run through his head. Automatically seeking familiar comfort, he found himself running his hands over his quiver, and then over the steel arrows inside it. He pulled one out and grasped the familiar weight of it in his hands.

“What do you want me to do?” Natasha said. Her voice was low, but strangled with fear, causing him to turn quickly. Except, as he turned, he saw her eyes track the arrow. She was trembling, eyes wide and not on him.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She was never looking at him anymore.

_What do you want me to do?_

The sheer pain of not knowing the answer to her question overrode the voice of reason in his head.

“What do I _want_? I have to _tell_ you now?” He flung the arrow and it whistled with the weight of his strength. Even flying sideways, it moved quickly. Worse, she didn’t let herself shy away from it, taking the flat of it across her face.

Her lip trembled, her eyes now closed, and Clint screamed in frustration.

“You still think I’d actually hurt you with that?! What am I going to do? Run you through? After all this time, all this pain, you think I’d actually strike deep? What have we been doing this whole time!?”

“I know you didn’t ask for me—” she tried, but Clint cut her off.

“Ask for you? No, I didn’t ask for you. You would have self-destructed if I hadn't decided to love you. You were thrown at me.”

She curled up tighter falling silent. Still not looking at him.

He surged forward and grabbed her hair in his fist, forcing her up as far as she could get and still be on her knees. She only looked down, staring into the ground.

“I guess we’ll just have to make the _best_ of it.” Clint could feel tears on his face. He could see Barney’s face on the rooftop in New Mexico. He could feel his father’s fingers pulling hard at his own hair.

They trembled together.

“You have to be good for something,” he spat, and no one could have told you who it was he was talking to, even as he shook her hard.

When she didn’t respond he turned sharply, heading to where they played, unsure himself what he was going to do next, dragging her behind him.

“Red!” she screamed.

He froze, unsure where he was exactly, and confused by the crying girl whose hair pulled at his fingers. They were purpling with the weight of her body.

Except, not just any crying girl. _His_ crying girl.

“Shit,” he gasped, letting go of her with a start and taking several steps back. “Shit, I’m—I’m going to throw up.”

He wasn’t exaggerating, having to take deep breathes to keep from hurling right there on the floor. Deep breaths as he kept taking large steps further and further from Natasha, who was still on the floor. He startled himself when his back hit the wall on the other side of the room.

Natasha sobbed suddenly, loudly, and Clint shuffled from side to side, afraid to move closer and unable to move farther.

“I’m sorry,” he called.

“Don’t you dare!” she screamed, the sound ripping raw from her throat. “Don’t you dare apologize to me! Make this right! Make this right, now!”

He understood immediately, running forward, falling to his knees, and having to scramble at a crawl the last couple of feet. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him. She was shaking so hard he had to curl his whole body over her.

“I begged for you,” he whispered to her. “I didn’t ask for you, but I begged for you. I needed you. I was stuck in that little concrete box of a room. I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t move. Thank god you were thrown at me. I was dying. I was dying alone in some hole in my mind and I had _nothing_. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m sorry because I know you said not to apologize but I _can’t_. Nat, Natasha, Natalie, Tasha, whoever and whatever you want to be. I need you, and I love you, and I need you, and I love you, and there will never be enough time or enough words or enough languages for me to be able to say that enough ways or enough times.”

They were breathing together, coordinating in their cries and stuttered breaths. He wound himself around her, touching as much of her as he could, and she just tried to bury herself deeper.

_I’m sorry._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short moment to thank everyone for their kind words and comments. I was honestly overwhelmed by the positivity over the last few days. Thank you all so much.
> 
> And heads up for the brief torture at the end. (It's gonna get worse before it gets better.)

Clint awoke the morning after, stiff and cold on the floor, and upsettingly without Natasha. After a two-second panic, he realized he could hear her in the kitchen, so he rushed to scramble to his feet and go to join her, only to freeze when he was halfway into the room.

She was sitting at the table, notes spread out in an organized mess and highlighter in hand. He expected her to look up at him when he came to a stuttering halt in the doorway, but her only visible reaction was to grip the highlighter more tightly.

“So, is that the research for the upcoming mission?” he asked gently.

“Yes.”

“How’s it looking?”

She carefully placed the cap back on the highlighter, leaning back in the chair and twirling the thing between her fingers. Clint couldn’t help but think it looked like how she twirled a butterfly knife.

She didn’t respond to the question at first, as they contemplated each other carefully over the table, each of them holding their own thoughts tightly. For a brief moment, Clint thought one of them was going to bring up the previous night. He scrambled for something to say, but the emotional effort to put something together was too great, and he leaned against the doorjamb instead.

“It’s interesting, at the very least,” Natasha said. “How much of it have you looked over?”

“I’ve got the basics. Some sort of organized crime ring with a base in New York. No one knows exactly what they’re doing, but a whole lot of money is going in and nothing’s coming out.”

“Do you know how SHIELD ended up getting involved?”

“I pretty much stopped reading after I got to the bit about our cover IDs,” Clint said. He spoke carefully, unsure whether or not almost-breaching the subject would be dangerous.

“You don’t like them.”

“My opinion isn’t really relevant. I have my concerns, but there’s nothing to be done about it. It’s out of my hands.”

“Want don’t you like about them?”

“Natasha—”

“You don’t like that I’m your boss? In this make believe reality we’re going to create, you don’t like that I’m your boss. Do you think I’m too stupid to tell the difference between reality and a cover ID?”

Clint’s eyes widened as her tone moved from cautious annoyance to blatant anger. He waited, considering his answer carefully. His gut reaction was to shut it down, to make her get on her knees and apologize, but something in her eyes made him reconsider. Something told him that this wasn’t her pushing him to discipline, but rather another play altogether.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” he responded. “I think that you’re a method actor. You sink yourself into these characters, and I’m concerned about what the fallout will be later.”

“You’re concerned what the fallout will be,” she repeated, without intonation.

They sat in silence for a while after that, the unsaid _I’m concerned I won’t get to keep you_ hanging on his lips.

“So how did SHIELD end up involved?” he asked instead.

“Energy spikes near the area. Which wasn’t so concerning itself, except that they’re some pretty weird energy spikes, and they’re not consistent with the metropolitan layout. Then, a few days ago, local law enforcement gets their hands on a list of pharmaceutical products being shipped to the same areas at the energy spikes. SHIELD got a hit, because some of the products on the list don’t exist. Not according to any public records anyway.”

“What kind of drugs are we talking about?”

“Mind altering, mostly. Mood control, memory enhancing, memory altering, hallucinogenic sedatives, you name it.”

“Sounds fucked up.”

“In a nutshell. So, it looks like I’m Dr. Darya Kovrov, and you’re my friend and bodyguard, Ray Anson. Feel like brushing up on your biology? You’ll at least need some basic terminology if you want to pass as having worked for me over the last half-decade.”

“Uh, yeah.” Clint pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning on and took a few steps to stand next to the table. “Hit me.”

Natasha slid a binder across the table at him. “That’s the paper I supposedly wrote, summarized of course. The back has some notes about my current researched into pharmacogenetics.”

“Paramaco-what?”

“Pharmacogenetics. The idea that every individual responds differently to any medication due to their genetic code. It’s getting pretty big in the medical world right now, especially since researchers are starting to figure out that this concept is the reason behind a lot of undiagnosed deaths throughout medical history. It’s looking like it could change everything about prescriptions.”

“When do you have time to keep up with this stuff?” Clint murmured, sinking down into the chair across from her. He flipped through the papers, noting that Natasha had highlighted key concepts and written in some terminology definitions. “You know,” he sighed, “I am capable of doing my own research.”

“I’m just getting into character. Or, what was it you said? ‘Sinking’ into character.”

“Natasha—”

“Hey, I was thinking I’d spend the night over at my apartment tonight. I mean, SHIELD’s holding it there and everything, so I might as well use it. Help myself ‘sink into character’ and all that.”

Clint couldn’t move, fingers clenched tightly around the edges of the notebook in his hands.

“Not immediately, of course,” Natasha hurried to add. “Later tonight. We still have a lot of work to do before we leave tomorrow, and I want to talk about our approach. Cold approaches suck, and we’re going to have to play it perfectly. Especially to get into a group this tightlipped.”

“Yeah,” Clint managed, trying to swallow around the dry dust cloying at his throat. “Yeah, whatever you want. Whatever you need.”

“Ok, then.” She was looking down at her notes, even as she nodded. “So, let’s talk about our mark.”

***

Sometime around 11pm Clint headed into his room to grab a hoodie. When he got back to the kitchen table, Natasha was gone. He glanced around for a moment, half-expecting to find her, but her notes had disappeared as well.

He took a couple of turns around the room, running his fingers through his hair and clenching his teeth. He even pulled out his phone to call her a couple of times. He managed to control himself, but only by dialing another number instead.

He tapped his foot impatiently as the phone rang, slamming his fist into the fridge when he got the voicemail message. He hung up and immediately called back.

“Come on,” he muttered into the phone. “Just pick up.”

He jumped, startled when he heard a click on the other end of the line, and then sighed in relief at Kaylie’s voice.

“Barton? Why are you calling at—well, I guess it’s only 11 there, isn’t it. What’s up?”

“I really need to talk to you,” Clint ground out through his teeth.

“Yeah, I got that when you called straight back. You don’t sound so good. What happened? How’s Nat?”

“I fucked up, Kaylie. I mean, I really really fucked up.” He could hear Kaylie’s sheets rustling around as she sat up, followed by the click of a bedside lamp.

“Ok, that’s ok. People fuck up.”

“Not like this. People aren’t supposed to fuck up like this.”

“Clearly you haven’t met very many people. How about you just tell me what happened?”

As Clint spilled out the story, starting all the way back weeks ago, when he’d realized how quickly Natasha was moving towards independence, Kaylie listened in silence. Even when he recounted the previous night, she kept still and listened. When the narrative came to its conclusion, she still didn’t say anything.

“Well?” Clint snapped. “I told you I’d fucked up!”

“I never said you hadn’t fucked up,” Kaylie soothed. “I just said that people fuck up and that there are ways to make it right. And I’m not changing my opinion now, even after I’ve heard the story.”

“You realize she’s halfway across the city? Sitting alone in an apartment? An apartment I’m just now realizing isn’t even fucking furnished.”

Kaylie laughed at that, though she was quick to apologize. “I’m sorry, it’s probably not funny to you, but it’s a lovely image. And you shouldn’t be so quick to assume that’s where she’s gone.”

“Meaning what?”

“First, Natasha is a remarkably resourceful girl. You really don’t need to worry about her spending the night on the floor. She’s had worse. Second, and more to the point, she doesn’t handle being alone well.”

“That’s exactly what I’m concerned about!”

“Then you’re not listening. Natasha avoids being alone. Avidly and as much as possible. You’ve said she safewords out the moment she even suspects you’re going to leave her alone. So you really think she went to spend the night alone in the dark?”

“There aren’t many places she could go.”

“Not many isn’t the same as none.”

“So, you think she ran to someone else?”

“I think it’s likely.”

“That might actually make me feel worse. I feel worse now.”

“Why? You feel worse because she’s probably being cared for? You feel worse because she’s not alone? You feel worse because she’s grown so much that she’s capable of calming under human contact other than your own?”

“Ok, now I feel like a jackass. You suck at comforting.”

“Let’s be fair. You didn’t call me for comfort. You called me because you thought I’d yell at you. You wanted me to spew vitriol and take you apart and call you every name I can think of. You wanted me to swear and put you down. You wanted me to punish you.”

Clint didn’t answer.

“Oh, Clint, honey. You’re coming to the wrong person.”

“You did this for a living,” Clint choked out.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m perfectly _capable_ of doing what you want. However, it doesn’t fall within my moral paradigms. I don’t dom other people’s subs. Not without an all-party agreement.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning maybe there are a lot more changes you and that girl need to work out than you think. A real dom/sub relationship doesn’t exist because someone _has_ to submit. I mean, it worked for you two in the beginning because it was the only option. But the best relationships occur because someone _chooses_ to submit. I know you’re afraid of the future right now, but I’ve seen you two together. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“You think she’ll come back?”

“Oh, honey,” Kaylie sighed. “Of course she’ll come back. You need it bad if you’re so low that you can doubt that.”

“Need what bad?”

“Need someone to put you in your place. To wind you up and make you scream.”

“But you just said you wouldn’t,” Clint sighed in exasperation.

“Obviously not, although the fact that I’m across the Atlantic from you right now is also a pretty important factor.”

“So then what am I supposed to do?” Clint shouted.

“Don’t raise your voice at me, Barton. I already told you once, but I’ll say it again. It sounds as though you and Natasha have a lot more negotiating to do about the power dynamics in this relationship than you think. Not everyone is able to dom all the time.”

“So, what? We should take breaks? Tuesday and Thursday from 8 to 11 she’s my sub and the rest of the time she’s free, or something?”

“Maybe. But that’s not really what I was thinking.”

“So what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking it might do you both some good to have the whip in Natasha’s hand every now and then.”

***

Kaylie, who had a tendency to be right about a good many things, was also right about Natasha's intentions for the night. Once she’d made her escape out the front door of Clint’s apartment, bag of notes slung over her shoulder, she pulled out her cell phone.

She held it in her hand for a while as she walked, trying to plan out the conversation. However, no matter how many times she tried it out, it faltered to an awkward halt. In the end, she stuck the phone back in her pocket and hailed a taxi.

***

Pepper had been asleep for about an hour, after an unexpectedly short meeting had let her get home early. When her phone rang, she rolled over and looked at the time. The clock told her it was closer to midnight than not, and a quick glance to the other side of the bed told her that it looked like Tony was going to be pulling another all-nighter down in the lab.

She considered letting the phone ring out, but damage control after that disaster of a Stark expo was far from over. She couldn’t really afford to miss a phone call. So she sat up, turning on the lamp, and picked up her phone.

“Hello?”

“Pepper?”

Pepper sat up straighter, twisting her legs out of the bed so they brushed the floor. “Natasha? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“You could say that.”

Pepper stood up off the bed, trying to decide if she should change out of her tank top and shorts or just run downstairs and get Tony. God, if another mechanized army was heading for the house—

“It’s not about you, though,” Natasha’s voice continued. “Not an emergency or anything. There’s no danger. You don’t have to panic.”

“Ok,” Pepper answered, unsure what else there was to say. “Then what happened?”

“I don’t know, exactly. But I was wondering if I could bother you for tonight. Just to have somewhere to crash.”

“You need somewhere to spend the night?” Pepper asked. She was still trying to fully wake up, even after the short adrenaline rush, but this situation was familiar enough that she caught on even through the groggy haze. “Did you and Hawkeye had a fight?”

“We…we had a something. I don’t know. It might have been a fight.”

“Ok. Of course you can come over. I can come down and let you in. Tony’s down in the lab, so you won’t be disturbing anyone.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I’m kind of in your kitchen.”

Pepper rolled her eyes and went to grab her robe out of the closet. “Of course you are. See you in a minute.” She hung up as she folded the robe over her arm, and then ran back to plug her phone back into its charger. It didn’t sound like she’d be taking any phone calls for a while.

As she headed down the stairs, pushing her arms through the thick fleece, she considered her options. Having a deadly assassin show up in her kitchen wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence, but it wasn’t at the top of her “weird shit” list either.

Mostly she was just concerned about what’d she say to the girl. If something traumatic had happened on a mission somewhere, Pepper really didn’t feel she was qualified to help. The whole girl-talk thing was usually hard enough. If secret agent shit was going to be added to the mix, everything was sure to be even more complicated.

When she did get down into the kitchen, she glanced over the room quickly. Then glanced over it again. Natasha had clearly said “kitchen,” but the room seemed deserted. Pepper walked slowly down to the other end, looking around carefully, and was startled to suddenly see Natasha, curled up around her knees and sitting on the floor underneath the table.

“Uh, good morning?” Pepper said, bending down to get a better look at her guest.

“Morning,” Natasha answered.

When she didn’t say anything else, Pepper sighed and got down to sit on the floor, too. “You want to talk about it?” she asked.

“No.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s good, right?”

“Yes.”

Pepper sighed again, bracing her elbow on one knee and putting her chin in her hand. “Do you want to give me something other than monosyllabic answers?”

Natasha buried her face in her knees and her answer, when it came, was obviously choked through a sob.

“Yes!”

Pepper didn’t even hesitate after that, scooting forward under the table to wrap her arms around the most dangerous person she’d ever met.

***

When Tony came up for breakfast the next morning, sweaty and covered in several kinds of oil, he pranced about the kitchen with his typical post-success air of pride.

“Praise me!” he crowed at Pepper, who was just pulling orange juice out of the fridge.

“Why?” Pepper asked, rolling her eyes.

“Because I am the smartest man you’ve ever slept with.”

“As of yet. I’ve still got time left.”

“Oh, my! Snippy the morning, aren’t we?” He snagged the orange juice out of Pepper’s hand, taking a swig straight from the carton. “What’s the occasion? Didn’t like the big bed all to yourself? Couldn’t get deep enough with your fingers to satisfy?”

He took another gulp, dancing back from Pepper’s swat, and then promptly choked on the drink when he saw Natasha, seated demurely at the table. He tried to speak, but was coughing too much to be coherent. He settled for pointing at the assassin and choking out, “Why!?”

“Surely you didn’t think we’d lost contact after everything?” Pepper asked sweetly. “Natasha and I have stayed on speaking terms and, with you so busy last night, I thought it would be the perfect night for a sleepover.” She crossed the room and took a seat next to Natasha.

Tony looked back and forth between the two faces looking at him and then asked, “So, were her fingers able to get deep enough?”

“Tony!” Pepper shouted.

“Because I think it’s very rude not to inv—”

“Tony, shut up!”

“I’ve found,” Natasha interrupted. “That men usually have this deep concern about what women do during sleepovers. I’ve also usually found a source of amusement in their guesses. Do you know what to know what actually usually happens?”

“Oh wait,” Tony smirked. “I’ve heard this one. You pass the Bechdel Test, right?”

Natasha snorted. “Not last night.”

“Not even a little bit,” Pepper agreed.

“Wait! Were you talking about me?” Tony cried. “Were you? What did you say?”

The two women just smiled at him, side by side.

***

When Natasha and Clint met up at the airport that night, they each gave each other a few sidelong glances. Besides courteous greetings, neither of them spoke to each other until they were actually on the place, headed for New York.

“So,” Clint began. “How was last night?”

“It had its ups and downs. You?”

“Same.”

They fell back into silence for a while then, until Clint suddenly spoke in a rush of words.

“Ok, just please tell me that you went somewhere else last night? That you didn’t go away to that empty apartment. That you didn’t choose isolation over me.”

“Pepper and I had a good talk last night,” Natasha answered carefully, and Clint leaned his head back against the headrest in relief.

“Well that’s something then,” he sighed.

“Yes, it’s something,” Natasha murmured, glancing around the otherwise empty plane. “Actually, I was thinking…” She trailed off, but Clint just waited patiently for her to continue. “I was thinking maybe I could sit at your feet. For a while. Just if you’d like. I won’t be any trouble.”

“You won’t be any trouble,” Clint echoed. “While sitting at my feet?”

“I’m sorry, I just meant that—”

“No, it’s fine. I’d like that. But what about about getting into character?”

Natasha slide down onto the floor, settling herself between Clint’s legs and leaning her face on his knee, before she answered.

“Fuck it.”

***

Unfortunately, that was the last good thing that happened on that mission. Once the plane had touched down, Clint and Natasha stood up, stretching out their cramped muscles. They made eye contact unexpectedly, and they both smiled in amusement.

The first hint that Clint had that something was wrong was when he noticed their pilot ducking out of the cockpit, tossing something down the aisle, and quickly exiting the plane.

“Natasha,” Clint began, tracing the object with his eyes as it rolled down the aisle. “I think—”

It was all he had time to say before he recognized the object as a flash grenade. Unluckily, that was also the moment the thing went off.

Natasha’s only warning had been the slight widening of Clint’s eyes, and that only meant that she spun quickly around to see what he was looking at. They both took the full light in their eyes, and the unexpected loud noise left behind a ringing sound that quickly became their whole world.

A gas can that Clint couldn’t even see began filling the cabin was something that he could only pray was some sort of sedative, rather than something lethal, because he was already choking on it. Natasha managed to get four shots off, shattering open two windows and giving them a cross breeze, but it was too little too late. Clint was still watching her when she lost consciousness. He held on for a few moments after, but suddenly realized he couldn’t even move anyway. He closed his eyes and drifted away.

***

When Clint woke, he found he was strapped to a chair. Wide leather straps wrapped round his wrists and bit deep into his skin. His head lolled forward and he gasped for air, trying to figure out where he was.

All he could think about was waking up on that floor of his apartment, alone, without Natasha, cold and alone. Like right now. He shivered into the dark. Originally he’d thought that his eyes just weren’t complying, but he could tell now that they were open. It just hadn’t made any difference.

He struggled against the chair for a while, orientated himself to the situation, and took a deep breath. Ok, so taken alive was always better than killed on the spot. Well, ok, not _always_. But usually. Or, at least, sometimes.

Fuck, he hoped Natasha was faring better.

He took another deep breath and talked himself down by taking inventory of his body. He felt a rush of relief when he noticed that his ankles weren’t bound to the chair. More than that, he didn’t seem to be injured. Besides the dry-sand sensation in his throat, he felt normal. Well, normal and tied to a chair. Sturdy chair, too.

He stretch his legs out to get them firmly planted on the floor, and unbalanced himself. The chair tipped over with a crash, and Clint gritted his teeth as his head his the floor. Fuck, blind proprioception was hard.

Not to mention his captors were now fully aware he was awake. That crash had been more than loud enough. Unfortunately, it hadn’t done what he wanted it to, and the chair was still intact.

He tried to wriggle his body, hoping to at least loosen something, but only managed to slide himself across the floor. Which he supposed was going to have to be good enough. Maybe there was something on the floor there that would help him get loose.

The common sense in his mind thought it was unlikely, reminding him that these guys had either turned a SHIELD pilot or had at least replaced one, but he told it to shut up and went back to scooting himself sideways across the floor. Like a fish on dry land or something.

Suddenly, the entire room was flooded in bright white light, and Clint turned to bury his face in the floor and closed his eyes. At the same time, a loud screeching noise filled the air, and Clint scream along with it, trying to override it with his own voice.

It just went on, and on. Just when Clint’s eyes were starting to become accustomed to the blinding light, they shut off again, and he was in the dark. Only for them to come right back on, blinding him again, no chance to acclimatize.

He stilled, trying to focus on finding himself in the noise.

He lost track of how long the pattern repeated itself, but when the noise finally shut off and the lights dimmed to a more reasonable measurement, he gasped with relief. God, when had he started holding his breath? Not a good start.

He heard a door open behind him, and he glanced quickly around the room. Four gray walls, gray ceiling, gray floor. Everything was solid concrete. The shelf outcropping on one wall, probably meant to be a bed, was empty and gray, too. Shit, he was pretty sure the tiny toilet in the corner was made of concrete.

“So,” a man sighed, and Clint craned his neck around to make out the speaker. Tall thin man, late 50s, expensive suit, hint of French accent. The face wasn’t on any wanted lists.

“So?” Clint echoed. “You have a name?”

“I don’t think you should concern yourself with me, just now. Focus on yourself.”

“That’s kind of what I’m doing.” Ok so, apparently he was going with the snippy rude counter-interrogation route. Again. He should probably learn to expand his repertoire.

“Now, now, Agent Barton, that’s no way to talk to your superiors. You and I are going to get to know each other very well. I’m going to be generous and let you rethink your approach to the situation. Now, before whatever delightfully disrespectful phrase you’re preparing comes out of your mouth, how about I tell you what you did wrong instead?”

“Let a traitor pilot my aircraft?” He assumed that was how this guy knew his name. His thoughts flew suddenly to Natasha. She clearly wasn’t here with him. Did she have her own room, or did she have one at all?

Maybe she’d been able to get out of the stupid chair.

“You crossed the red line, Clinton.”

“Oh, please can you not call me that? My mother didn’t even call me that.”

“Do you see the red line?”

Clint glanced back at the floor, having to crane his neck around the chair. Sure enough, a thin red line, made of red light, bisected the room. In his struggling, he’d managed to move himself away from his original placement and over the red line. Not by much, but one of his legs and clearly strayed across.

“Yeah, I see the line,” he sighed.

“You crossed the line.”

“Can you hear yourself right now? ‘You crossed the line!’ Is this a 90s show?”

The man didn’t seem to respond at first, languidly walking over to where Clint lay. He braced on foot against the outer corner of the overturned chair, wrapped his other hand around its arm, and pulled Clint into an upright position.

“Thanks,” Clint laughed. “The blood was really rush—”

He was cut off by a quick backhand to his face. The inside of his cheek split open against his teeth and he could taste blood. For a moment, he wasn’t in the room anymore. His mind flew him away to Hungary, tied to a chair and choking his life away at the hands of people who didn’t care whether he lived or died.

“Clinton,” the man chided softly, and Clint came back to himself. “That was very disrespectful. I’m disappointed. I thought you’d catch on more quickly than that. Please don’t make me do this to you.”

Oh, the guilt trip. Classic method of torture. Make all the pain the victim’s fault. Make them their own enemy.

“Now,” the man continued. “Let’s get back to talking about your red line. Space, here, is a privilege. As is light, and peace, and food. Exercise and entertainment. The right to speak. The right to sunlight.”

“I’m getting the pattern.”

Another backhand, across the same cheek.

“The edge of this red line is your whole world, right now. You’re to stay on this side of it, until I give you permissions to cross it. Disobey, and suffer the consequences you experienced a few hours ago.”

Clint rolled his eyes, expecting it to earn him another slap, but the man just smiled thinly. “Better,” he praised, and the taste the comment left in Clint’s mouth spurred him to respond.

“Look, Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is. I’d love to have a chat about personal boundaries and all that, but isn’t this about when you tell me what you want and all that shit? Why we were taken?”

“We?”

Clint held his tongue, trying to figure out what damage he might or might not do by bringing up Natasha. In the end, however, he didn’t have to make the decision. The man answered him anyway.

“Oh, the girl? The girl who was with you on the plane? I’m afraid you were always the target, Clinton. We didn’t know enough about her, and she has a reputation for being very dangerous. Well, so do you , but not in quite the same cold-blooded way. You’re more a precision instrument. She’s some kind of wildfire that turns everything to ash. Given the choice, I’d rather have the precision instrument. It’s less likely to bite the hand that feeds it. Given the opportunity.”

“Meaning what?” Clint spat.

“Meaning we left her on the floor of the plane, with a bullet in her head.”

Clint didn’t believe it. Something about the way the man’s mouth twisted as he spoke gave away the lie. But the panic still showed on his face for a split-second, before he could school it properly.

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts then.”

He produced a syringe from his pocket, and Clint clenched his teeth. Fucking drugs all in his body, screwing with his sense of placement. But there was nothing he could do about it except wince as the needle went into his neck.

Whatever it was burned in his vein, and it took effect more quickly than he’d anticipated. His vision swam, and then changed into something else. Something like the bright lights and yet peaceful as the cold dark, too. Not like a blurriness had been added, but like everything had been taken away. The dissociative feeling spread down his body, ice and fire, until he couldn’t even scream. He tried to panic, tried to raise his heartrate, but his body wouldn’t let him.

What was it that Natasha had said about the drugs in this place? Something about memory and senses.

He floated, trying to panic, and his head dropped back against the chair. He couldn’t move his body, hanging in some perpetual hell, eyes open but unseeing, until he finally lost consciousness.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give this one a severe heads up for detailed psychological torture with subsequent mental instability and deterioration. It’s accompanied by creepy rapey-talk and blatant (non-graphic) non-con and it’s just really fucked up, ok?. If you prefer, the notes at the end are a detailed and spoiler-y walkthrough of the entire chapter.  
> I also feel compelled to say that I know almost nothing about Taekwondo. I spent some time doing research to try to make sure I didn’t say something wrong or inappropriate, but if anyone sees something that needs to be corrected, please tell me and I’ll make the necessary alterations.

Clint woke to find himself lying on the concrete shelf, no longer bound, with an even worse taste in his mouth than before. A quick glance around the room revealed that there was no water to be seen, though Clint doubted that it would be safe to drink anything he found anyway. He needed to get out of here immediately.

He stumbled to his feet, standing and surveying. Nothing seemed to be interesting about the room, although he was mildly surprised to notice that the red laser pointer line had been moved closer, effectively decreasing the space he was allowed to utilize.

He made a mental note to purposefully cross that every now and then, and looked back at the door. It seemed solid enough, the wood contrasting with the blank concrete.

Shit, his head hurt. He kept trying to remember what had happened during his conversation with the man before he’d passed out, but the images were hazy.

_Don’t speak without permission. Don’t cross the red line. Be respectful._

Clint walked over to the door, trying the metal handle automatically. It got him a shock for his trouble, burning deep into his fingers and convulsing his body. He fell to his knees and grunted in pain.

He took a moment to gather himself, stood up, pulled off his shirt, and wrapped it around his hand. He tried to the doorknob again, this time with the insulation, and was surprised to find it turned. He was not surprised, however, to find the door still wouldn’t budge.

Dead-bolted from the outside then.

He pulled his shirt back on and made his way back over to the bed. He was clearly in the hands of professionals. He shouldn’t waste his energy trying to mess around with stuff. Waiting could be the worst part of this kind of exercise.

As he lay down and tried to calm his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder where Natasha was.

***

Clint was trying to keep track of the time, but there was no system of measurement. Nothing had happened in what felt like days. The lights stayed on, the steady hum of a generator stayed just under his thoughts. His mouth was so dry and sticky that it was interfering with his breathing. The room was too cold, and his clothes were too thin.

He figured it couldn’t actually have been days. He hadn’t had anything to drink, and it hadn’t killed him yet.

He tried meditating himself away from the situation, and it worked for a while, but eventually the thirst and the cold brought him back. He began to drift, not of his own volition, but because he couldn’t keep himself in consciousness.

The room faded and swam.

There were bright lights and cold voices.

He gradually came back to himself tied to the stupid chair again. Seeing an IV in his arm, he couldn’t help but be grateful for the metallic taste the liquid was triggering in his mouth. He was still cold, however, and a glance down revealed that he’d been stripped naked. Bad start. Worse, there was some kind of collar around his neck. Probably a shock collar, if this stay was continuing the way it had started.

Clint looked up, unsurprised to find the same man staring down at him.

“You have a name?” Clint sneered. “I’ve really got to call you something.”

“You will call me ‘sir’.”

Clint managed to keep himself from laughing, and nodded his head. He wouldn’t lose anything but pride in complying with the request. This was looking to be a marathon, not a sprint. He needed to save his strength for the battles that really mattered.

“All right. Sir. Mind telling me why I’m butt naked?”

“You abused your right to clothing.”

It took Clint a moment, but it got it eventually. “You mean the doorknob thing? Come on. You couldn’t have expected me not to at least try it? You’re the one who shocked me. I did what you knew I would.”

“The fact that I expected it from you doesn’t mean that I’m not going to punish you. Your actions have consequences. All your actions have consequences. Good or bad.”

“Punishment and reward? Yeah, I’m catching on. You’re conditioning me.”

“Clever boy.” Clint narrowed his eyes at the phrase, but the man continued. “Now, what I’m going to do next is let you up from the chair, and we’re going to go through some basic exercises.”

“What kind of exercises?”

“If you don’t comply…well, I’m sure you’ve figured out what that collar is for, by now.” The man waved some sort of button in front of Clint’s face.

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Excellent. Now, how about you actually start calling me sir, like I asked. Lip service is an important first step. Fake it till you make it, after all.”

“Oh, I get it, _sir_.”

“Good boy.”

Clint tried to look bored as the man undid the first wrist. He watched the movements, trying to figure out what his best play was. If he could get his hands on that button, the situation could turn around in a heartbeat. Assuming there was no one watching on any cameras with a second remote button. At the very least, he could get his arms around the man, conducting any electricity from the shock into his captor. Maybe a hostage would be enough.

Except, just when Clint was about to make a move, the man pressed the button anyway, and it wasn’t a shock that ripped through him. Instead, he felt a tiny prick in his neck, and a cold sensation dripped its way through his body.

It was a different drug than the one from earlier. His senses didn’t dull or fade, but he found his mind became looser, faltering in its grip on reality. He realized he was going to have to work hard to keep himself grounded here. He could already feel his memories from Hungary threatening to mix with the current moment.

“I didn’t do anything,” he complained out loud.

“Not as such, though I deeply suspect you were about to. Either way, it’s important that you realize that I’m the one in charge here. While you can always earn punishment for your disobedience, lack of punishment is a reward in and of itself. If you truly want to be left alone, you’re going to need to start earning some rewards.”

Clint grunted, trying to remove himself from the situation. Trying to remember what he’d left in the fridge at home. Trying to list all the songs he’d put on the last playlist he’d made.

He was having a lot of difficulty remembering anything past yesterday.

When had he even last made a playlist?

“Stand up for me,” the man ordered.

Clint found himself standing before he’d thought it through. He tried to reassure himself that something simple like standing was totally worth not getting another injection. His grasp on reality was already tenuous enough.

But the fact that he hadn’t consciously made the choice bothered him. Or, at least, it almost bothered him. Something told him it should bother him.

“I know you’ve been trained in basic Taekwondo, so tell me, do you know your hyungs?”

Clint tried to think through the moment. What had he been doing again?

“Barton?” the voice chastised him, and for one weird second it sounded exactly like Coulson had that one time that Clint had taken a shot on a target that he maybe shouldn’t have.

“Yes,” he answered.

“ITF or WTF?”

“Both.”

“Very good. I know you’re probably having some difficulty with reality right now, but I want you to walk through each one as I give it to you.”

“Yes, Kuk Sa Nim.”

“Oh! Even better. I can tell you had a classical training then. Say what you will about SHIELD, but they do tend to go about things the right way. Very elegant.”

The response made it clear to Clint that he’d lost too much of his touch on reality. Unfortunately, the idea of going through the calming Taekwondo patterns seemed very appealing. It would be grounding and pleasantly difficult. He really wanted to stretch his muscles. So, at the first call of “Chon-Ji,” he fell into stance and began his walkthrough.

It wasn’t like he would help anything by sitting still, letting his muscles atrophy, and getting another injection for his trouble. Instead, he let himself drift back with the muscle movements. His captor—trainer?—had been wrong in his assumption that Clint had learned this particular form of martial arts at SHIELD. This one he’d gotten at the circus, lessons earned by completing all his chores.

He could feel himself side-by-side with Barney, perfectly coordinated movements flowing together. Each of them laughing at whoever was the first to falter. Standing with pursed lips and trying not to laugh when Jun-seo pretended she was angry with them for forgetting the next movement.

“Eui-Am,” the man murmured as Clint came to the end of the first form.

He lost track of time again. At first he found a pleasant tone to the exercise. The burn in his body felt good, and he didn’t notice the effects of the drug as much as he sunk himself down into the patterns.

Except, it didn’t stay that way. As he continued to push himself through the forms, he became more and more exhausted, losing his steadiness and control. The first time that he wobbled enough to actually lose his balance and put his foot down on the floor before he was supposed to, he hissed at the sudden prick in his neck. The drug’s cold feeling washed over him again.

“Hey!” he snapped, remembering where he was. “I’m trying here. You want to tell me what the point of this stupid exercise is anyway? Honestly, if someone had asked me the other day what I’d be doing around this time, I never would have been able to guess.”

Which got him another needle in his neck.

“Ack! How many of those doses do you even have in this thing?”

The increasing disorientation made the forms even more difficult to follow, and his next mistake was an actual misstep, rather than a loss of balance. Another needle predictably dulled his senses further.

Maybe this _was_ the same drug he’d gotten the other day. He was beginning to feel like he was floating again, and he dreaded falling back into the _nothingness_ that his mind had become the night before.

“I’m trying,” he whispered, not in defiance this time, but as a genuine plea.

“I’m aware,” was the only cold response.

Clint went back to his obedience, quickly failing again. This time, when the needle slid in, he fell to his knees.

“Please stop. Please, I don’t like it.” Fuck he wasn’t even sure his words made sense. He couldn’t feel where his own body was in space. He couldn’t feel his lips or hear his voice. Just a gentle humming noise that took a long time to be translated into words in some horrifyingly delayed response time.

He forced himself to raise his head and found he was face to face with the man, who had crouched down to better look at Clint.

“Please, sir.”

Fuck, he was showing his hand. Splaying out the cards and not even trying to hide how much he hated being unable to feel himself in space. His precision was his strength. No one else had the control over their own bodies that he did. He needed his control.

“You have to earn your reprieve, Clinton.”

“How? Tell me how.”

Clint suddenly became aware that the man was carding his fingers through Clint’s hair. He could see the man’s arm running up and down, could see that it was touching his face. If he concentrated, he could make out the actual sensation of skin against skin.

“For a kiss,” the man intoned.

Clint struggled to understand the words, shuddering involuntarily when he finally grasped the meaning.

“Don’t,” he whispered, but he still tilted his head up. Waiting.

“You’re going to have to come to me, Clinton. I’ll never have it be said that I forced anyone.”

 _Fucking bastard_ , Clint seethed inwardly. But he bit back the thought, not trusting himself to be able to keep the words behind his tongue.

Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to his torturer’s. It was brief and Clint pulled away quickly.

“That’s what you have to offer?” the man chastised. “I’m not sure that’s worth a reprieve.”

“Don’t push it,” Clint seethed, out loud this time.

The man just waved the button in front of Clint’s face, and the archer closed his eyes tightly. He counted to ten, or tried to anyway, and then leaned forward and repeated the kiss, this time a little deeper and a little longer.

He felt his tormentor laugh against his mouth, and considered biting down on the man’s lips. Drawing blood. Except he’d already sacrificed his pride, humiliated himself, for a reprieve. It would be stupid not to take it now.

He drew away, eyes tight shut and fought the desire to vomit. It wasn’t hard to suppress the urge, given how easy the drug made it to do nothing at all.

***

The next day didn’t start out as well. He woke to find several bottles of water on the floor of the cell, along with a change of clothes. He assumed it was a reward for the night before, which brought the whole thing back into memory.

He swore at himself, unsure who to blame for his lack of control. It took him a painfully long time to re-convince himself that the entire situation had been out of his hands. That he’d been manipulated. That choosing the best option available didn’t mean he’d ever agreed to any of the choices.

He couldn’t shake the idea that he could still taste the man on his lips.

That was an unfortunate side effect of the drug. Whenever it wore off, the dulled senses came back with a vengeance, as if they were trying to make up for lost time. Everything he touched hurt against his sensitized skin, and he wished they’d turn the lights down.

In lieu of this, he opted not to put the clothes on until everything had calmed down a little. He crawled across the floor and twisted a cap off one of the water bottles, wincing at the cracking noise as it echoed in the silence.

It was so cold. Maybe he should put on the clothes now. After all, he’d been given them. It might be rude to ignore them.

As he was struggling into the pants, the door to his cell opened. Clint turned around quickly, on his hands and knees, crawling backwards to get as far away from the man as he could. Only he wasn’t alone this time. Two others stood behind him, and their appearance screamed “bodyguards.” Which meant they’d be doing something a little more on the physical side of torture, rather than psychological.

With his eyes on his tormentor, Clint forgot where he was in the room, which was something he had never done before. The small eyebrow raise from the man staring down at him was the only warning Clint had before his feet crossed backwards across the red line.

The room exploded into light and sound, compounded by the side effects of the drug. Clint threw himself forward, struggling to crawl under the pain, trying to get as far away from the red line as possible.

He ended up crawling straight into his captor’s legs, grabbing hold of him before he could think the action through. Searching for something to ground him outside of the over-sensitization.

The noise and light faded away immediately, and the man crouched down with a soft gasp.

“Look at you,” he cooed. “Running to me. You’re as smart as they said you’d be. Already figured out who has the power over your suffering.”

His smile didn’t diminish when Clint threw himself backwards again. Not that he got very far. The two bodyguards quickly took hold of his arms, hauling him up to scrabble for purchase on the floor.

He was still too weakened to fight back, especially against the two of them. Plus, he shied away from anything that would mean more touch against his skin. Hard impact. The sore burn of his muscles was already claiming more of his attention than he would have liked to be giving it.

Except, then he noticed that they were dragging him to that stupid chair, which was clearly on the other side of the room. Across the red line.

“Wait,” he stuttered out, pushing back against the cloud of pain to try and slow down. “Wait, I can’t—” He glanced over at the man calling the shots. “It’s across the line.”

“I know.”

“I can’t cross the line.” They were very near it now, despite his struggles, and the echoes of the pain from the consequence a few minutes ago still rang in his ears and behind his eyes.

“Not without permission.”

“May I have permissions. Please? Sir?”

“What a lovely question, and very beautifully phrased, too. Yes, you have permission, just this once.”

Clint wasn’t sure where the victory there was. He still just ended up back in the chair, leather cuffs keeping his arms tightly held in place. When his captor—trainer? handler?—motioned at the door, however, and the small DC generator was rolled in, he panicked and bucked against the straps, over sensitized pressure be damned.

“Please don’t,” he asked. “I’m too wound up. It’s too full. I can hear everything. Don’t do this to me.”

“Oh, my precious bird,” the man sighed. “It’s not your place to call for what you can and cannot endure. I know you as I know myself. I promise not to push you too far. In fact, why don’t you thank me for that?”

“What?”

“I want a ‘thank you’ for my promise that I won’t push you too far today. Or else, I might rescind said promise.”

Clint whined, straining against his bonds and drawing out his hesitation. Because it was nothing more than hesitation as he eventually gave in with a quiet, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, pet.”

At the first shock of electricity through his body, Clint screamed and thrashed against his restraints. His feet managed to get purchase on the floor and he scooted the chair back a good foot.

“Shhh,” his trainer—handler? master?—soothed. “I have a game for you, little bird. I know you might not like it, but it will be good for you. I want you not to struggle. I know it’ll be hard, but I want you to sit still.”

The aftershocks of the pain meant that Clint almost didn’t feel the needle prick his arm. He did, however, feel the familiar sting of drug in his vein. Except, this was a different drug. Nothing about his senses was dulling.

He struggled to listen to his body, trying to figure out what effect the drug was having while also trying to listen to his trainer—handler?—as he continued to drone on.

“So I’ll make you a deal. If you don’t struggle at a shock, then I’ll lower the voltage. If you do, then I’ll raise it. Seem fair?”

Clint didn’t trust himself to speak, opting to nod instead.

“Good. Thank me for being generous enough to give you so much freedom.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Such a pretty caged bird, aren’t you?”

Which was the only warning Clint got before another shock skittered through him. He tried not to struggle. He gave it his honest best shot, but he couldn’t stop the automatic pull against the straps.

He couldn’t bear to look at the disappointment in his trainer’s eyes as he turned the knob up higher.

By the time the session was finished, Clint had learned how to school his reactions against the punishment. It helped that the over-sensitization from the drugs wore off, but he also found that his body was learning better. After the first time that he managed to keep still through the jolt, his trainer did actually lower the voltage. Enough that it started a conditioning cycle that enabled him to keep still more and more often.

When Clint finally felt the electrodes being pulled off his body, he looked around wearily, shivering and dehydrated.

He froze suddenly, staring at his wrists. Free wrists. He wasn’t strapped down.

“When?” he choked out.

“Hmm?” his trainer mused, still winding the cords up neatly.

“When did you untie me?”

“Ask like you’re supposed to, pet.”

“When did you untie me, sir?”

“Some time ago. Learned helplessness is a marvelous thing, isn’t it? And that drug, too. It really cuts days off our schedule. Weeks, probably.”

He laid a gentle kiss to Clint’s forehead.

“Don’t worry, pretty bird. You did very well. I’m very proud.”

***

Clint was lying curled underneath the concrete outcropping that was supposed to be his bed, when the door opened again later that day.

“Don’t,” he cried, pushing himself back further into the shadow. Even though he was sure the action and the request would displease.

“Clint? Gods help me, I’m going to skin them all alive.”

Clint shuddered at the familiar voice, lifting his head carefully, terrified to look up and find that Natasha’s voice was nothing but an illusion. Or worse, that she was just as much a captive as he.

The terror was a waste of time. His Natasha was covered in blood, clearly not her own if the bright spark of anger in her eyes was anything to go by.

“You came for me,” he murmured, reaching toward her. The light above their heads framed her hair into a halo. Dark red to match the blood of his captors stained across her clothing.

“I will always come for you.”

The parallel was too much. His body jerked once, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he lost consciousness.

When he woke again, he was on a rooftop, obviously having been dumped there unceremoniously a few minutes ago. The sun was warm and bright on his face, and it didn’t hurt at all like the unnatural lights in the cell below had.

“Shit!” Natasha swore.

“What happened?” Clint asked, struggling to sit up. Just breathing in real air was already making him feel better. The trembling in his hands had stopped. He crawled over to Natasha, burying his face in her back and breathing in her scent.

She was leaning over the edge of the roof, sniper rifle in hand, tracking something with her eyes.

“That’s your torturer,” she said, pointing down at a running figure. “I need him alive.”

“Why?”

“Because I know him.”

Clint sat up at that. “You know him?”

“I think I know him? I don’t know. Besides, even if I didn’t, a shot to the head is too quick after what he’s done to you.”

“You don’t think you can get his leg at this distance?”

“I don’t have a scope!” she shouted in frustration. “The only thing I have is his face in my head, and I hope he’s scared. I don’t care that the trail will have gone cold before I finally get the chance to hunt him down. I _will_ find him. I hope he knows it.”

She turned back to Clint, and her expression softened. She traced her hand down his cheek, cupping his face and drawing him in for a chaste kiss.

“Don’t worry,” she soothed. “An extraction team is on its way.”

“Give me the rifle.”

“What? It doesn’t have a scope.”

“So?”

Natasha considered him for a moment, and then silently handed the weapon over.

Clint took it in hand, and rose to his feet. He braced it against his shoulder, and looked down the sight, finding the running blur in the distance. He focused on its movement, on its pattern, until the blur became the shape of a man.

Except, it wasn’t just any man. Clint felt the slight tremble return to his hand, destroying any chance of a shot he’d have at that distance. He could see the man’s face, bent over him in the bright room. He could imagine the frown of disappointment.

_Did I say you could leave your room?_

Clint breathed deep and tasted the water in the air. He felt the path of the wind. He widened his stance on the solid ground.

He fired.

The bullet flew almost a thousand meters and tore through the fleeing man’s right Achilles tendon. Once he was on the ground, the next shot was even easier, and the second bullet ripped through the other ankle.

“What?” he grinned at Natasha. “You thought I got my codename for nothing?”

“My mistake,” she smiled, leaning further out over the roof’s edge to pinpoint the man lying in the dirt. “No way he makes it out before the extraction team gets here. We’ll pick him up on the way out.”

She pulled herself back from the edge, settling herself down and looking at Clint with undisguised admiration.

Which he didn’t feel he fully deserved.

“I, uh…” he tried, trailing off and gesturing helplessly in the direction of the fallen man. “I almost couldn’t…” He bit his lips together and looked up at the sky.

“I know,” she murmured, reaching out one arm to wrap around him. “God, do I know.”

Clint buried his face in her chest, and she held him tight as he shook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint is left alone in his cell, trying to mentally remove himself from the situation, but is left there so long without water that he passes out. Waking to find an IV in his arm, he becomes more lucid. He is then forced to walk through several Taekwondo forms on command, being punished with drug injections when he either resists or to fails at them. Deeply disliking the effect the drugs have on his body (especially since they make it more and more difficult to successfully complete the forms) Clint begs for them to stop. He's told that they'll stop for a kiss. He eventually gives in and kisses his captor, earning a reprieve.  
> Clint awakes the next day to find that the side effects of the drug mean that he's now hypersensitive to any sensation, causing him to shy away from his captors when they return. This unfortunately makes him unknowingly cross the red line, and the lights and sounds go off again, worsened by the drug's effects. In pain and disoriented, Clint shies away from the red line and practically into his captor's arms, which earns him the reward of the lights and sounds being shut off.  
> He's then forcibly moved back to the chair, voluntarily asking for permission to cross the red line when he sees that the chair is on the other side of it.  
> His captor then plays a game with electrical shocks where Clint earns higher voltages if he tries to get away (whether voluntarily or involuntarily) and lower voltages if he submits.  
> Clint finds that he is becoming confused, and can't remember if he's being tortured or if he's being trained by his handler. A new drug in his system doesn't help.  
> After several hours, Clint finds he's both unwilling to endure more pain and that he doesn't want to disappoint the man torturing him. This causes him to sit still through the torture, which gradually lessens.  
> When it finally stops, Clint finds that he had been untied from the chair some time ago, and had continued to sit still in lieu of a psychological phenomenon knows as "learned helplessness." It earns him a kiss on the forehead and a short break.  
> Clint awakes again to find Natasha has broken into the cell, killing many of the guards. She gets him out, relocating them to a rooftop to wait for the coming extraction team. While on the roof, she states that she thinks she knew the man who had been torturing Clint, and laments that he's going to get away, since the rifle she has doesn't have a scope.  
> Clint offers to take the shot, but finds he hesitates to actually pull the trigger, having to fight through the last few days of conditioning. After he grounds himself and successfully fires the weapon, he sits down and admits to Natasha that he'd hesitated. She sympathizes deeply, remembering her own past condition and how hard it had been to fight through it.


	10. Chapter 10

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep up with how quickly she was moving back and forth between two entirely separately emotions. While she’d kept herself in “mission mode” all the way through their extraction, she’d degenerated quickly once they were actually in the plane. She’d curled up at his feet, clinging to his legs, and sobbed out her thousand apologies.

Clint had pet her hair and had leaned down to murmur whatever praise he could drag to mind, flipping off another agent who had the audacity to look at the scene in disgust.

The truth was, however, that Clint was just as exhausted as she. What Kaylie had said about Natasha holding the whip mixed in his mind with his own recent conditioning, however short term it had been.

Eventually, he leaned over so far the seatbelt cut into his abdomen. So he reached backward and unclasped it, causing himself to fall out of the seat and down onto his knees. Natasha adjusted her position fluidly until each was holding the other, although she continued her string of apologies.

Looking over Natasha’s shoulder, Clint saw that the agent who’d been looking at them with disgust was getting yelled at by a superior officer. Clint could catch the words “conditioning” and “overstimulation,” but he didn’t care enough to strain for more. At least that was one less thing to worry about.

***

“And that’s the as-of-yet unidentified target that the extraction team brought back with you?” the small man in the suit confirmed, and Clint nodded.

Getting through the debriefing on his end had turned out to be more difficult than he’d expected, even if the man had been remarkably sympathetic to the entire ordeal. But no matter how relaxed and slow-paced the Q&A had been, Clint just wanted to get back to Natasha. He assumed she was stuck somewhere in her own room, having her own little interrogation session.

As soon as he was dismissed, he bolted for the hallway, phone already in his hand. He intended to call her, but the single unread text on his phone informed him that it was unnecessary. She’d been let out some time ago, and had already headed back to the little room they still sometimes used on the base.

When Clint slipped inside the room, he found Natasha standing in the middle, looking around it with a strange expression on her face.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

“Strange memories,” she answered. Except, there was a dream-like lilt to the words. Clint waited for a moment, but she didn’t say anything else.

“So,” he began again. “Are you ok?”

“Meaning?”

“About the whole…well, last time I was hurt on the field you didn’t handle it so well. I mean, you handled it well all things considered, but not well in the slew of normal emotions. Typical emotions. Shit, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

“You’re trying to ask if I’m about to have a breakdown,” Natasha intoned, finally turning on her heel to look at him.

“Yeah. I guess. Something like that. So, how are you feeling?”

“Truthfully? Angry. Deeply angry. Irrationally angry. Angry even though it doesn’t make any sense to be angry, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s there bubbling underneath my skin.”

“O…kay? That’s a new one, right? Uh, angry at what, exactly?”

“You.”

“Come again?”

“I wake up, bleeding out and barely breathing on a plane in the middle of who knows where, and you weren’t _there_.”

“I wasn’t exactly—”

“You weren’t there!” She covered her mouth with both hands almost as soon as she interrupted him, and the anger melted away as quickly as it had come.

“Nat,” Clint whispered, but she just shook her head.

“Hurt me,” she begged.

“I can’t. God, I can’t. I don’t have it in me right now.”

“It’ll make you feel better.”

He half-laughed at that, walking over to sit on the bed and then beckoning her to him. She came quickly, perching herself on his lap.

“Maybe. But I can’t right now. I can’t hurt and command. Not right now. And I think you might be too full of something else for that to be what you need either. It won’t make me feel better, Nat. Not right now. Not like this. I can barely breath in my own skin. Even though medical cleared me, I can’t shake the sensation that I can’t feel my own body. I can still taste that man in my mind, with his drugs and his praise, and I _can’t_.”

She pulled back from him as he spoke, keeping her position on his lap, but moving far enough that she could see his face. When he blinked back tears, she cupped his face in her hand, and he leaned into it, nuzzling at her palm as he closed his eyes.

“Ok,” she answered. “Ok. Then what do you want to do?”

“I have an idea.”

Something in his voice as he said it made her sit up straighter, perking up at the promise of _something_ behind those words.

“Oh? What kind of an idea? The kind of idea that I’m going to like? A good idea?”

“All my idea are good ideas,” Clint smirked.

Natasha cast back in her mind for something to tease him with, but only found memories full of herself all wound up and writhing with pleasure. That or herself so deep in subspace that the quality of his ideas didn’t matter.

“Fair enough,” she admitted. “Tell me the idea.”

“Well, you came and chased me down yesterday. Ran across the country and dug me out of an underground facility. Hide and seek.”

“Hide and seek,” she echoed.

“Yeah. So, I think it’s my turn to be ‘it’. Don’t you?”

“You want to play hide and seek?”

“What? You don’t think I can’t find you? You seem to have a lot of faith in your own abilities, little spider. You might be able to disappear into the shadows, but you forget how well I see. You forget how well I know you.”

“Where am I hiding?”

“Let’s keep it in the city, shall we? We don’t have more than a day or so.”

“What happens if you find me?”

“What happens _when_ I find you?” he growled back, and something there made her shudder. His eyes were piercing her in a way that drew her back to the first time she’d seen them. Really seen them. Flipping over backwards into a shattering skylight.

“What happens _when_ you find me?”

He drew her in so he could hum low into her ear, their bodies pressed tightly up against each other.

“One,” he whispered, and she sat up straighter. “Two,” he whispered, and she fled.

***

It didn’t take as long as he’d expected, which only served to tell him how much she wanted him to find her. A real honest-to-god game would have left him narrowing in on her for days before he finally cornered her.

As it was, he managed to trap her in an abandoned hotel four and a half hours after she’d fled the base. Which was when it really got interesting. The windows of the building had long been boarded up, and it didn’t take much work to seal off the ground floor exits. Then he made his way up onto the roof and started his descent.

He was still pretty sure that she could get out of the building if her life depended on it. He was just as sure that she wasn’t going to try it. The game was hide-and-seek, not lure-someone-into-a-building-and-then-go-somewhere-else. Which would make an awful name for a game.

He shook the absurdity from his mind and slipped into yet another dark hallway. He shuffled slowly through the blackness. He could see the outline of the end of the hallway, and the dim light gave him just enough to be able to see his feet if he focused.

He took another couple of steps, sidetracking around a pile of clutter and old spray cans. His current strategy was to make his way silently through the building, and see if he could hear her.

Which meant that, if she was lying still, finding her could take some time. But then, lying still wasn’t really her thing.

If he was hunting her, then it was practically guaranteed that she was hunting him.

His adrenaline jacked up again, and he could feel his heart beating cold through his body. His legs felt numb with the idea of it, not knowing where she was. He talked himself down from the adrenaline high, forcing himself not to spin around and glance behind.

Just as he had steadied enough to trust himself to walk forward again, he caught a flash of a figure across the framed light at the end of the hallway in front of him.

He broke into a sprint, abandoning stealth for speed and agility. As he ran, he used the momentum to run up the wall, coming around the corner with his body nearly at the ceiling.

It was a good call. She’d turned on her heel when she heard him behind her, lunging at the direction of the sound, rolling gracefully across the hard concrete when her body didn’t collide with his own.

He let himself down in a controlled fall, landing and then turning quickly to get his eyes on her again. The light was dim, and getting worse as the sun set. If he focused, he could barely make out her outline, gray against darker gray.

They froze, each looking at each other.

Except, not looking at each other. She wasn’t looking at him, but rather off to the side. Her eyes were unfocused and her mouth opened, to quiet her breathing. Was she listening for him?

He smiled to himself as he realized it was too dark for her to see. She was standing in the pitch black, waiting for his touch against her. Waiting for his hands to close around her and draw her to him.

Though he doubted she’d come quietly.

He took a careful step, letting himself take all the time he needed, shifting his position a little to the left. Then he waited, and then stepped again. It was painstaking, this apparent standoff. The little light he did have was fading, and his advantage was going with it.

He stepped again, this time moving himself closer to her, but something must have been different, because her eyes flew straight to where he’d put his foot. He barely had time to jerk backwards, taking large stumbling steps as she followed.

He planted himself suddenly, reached out, and grabbed her wrist, twisting it sharply. She flinched at the purposeful contact, obviously not expecting his precision to let him land such a perfect grab. He used the moment to get himself behind her.

But she broke away quickly, twisting down and away, and then she was off. The last of the light faded as she disappeared down the hallway. He followed her by the sound of her footsteps to the staircase. She was headed down. Quickly, too. Quickly enough that Clint stopped to listen and count.

The sound faded at what he calculated to be the fourth floor, whether that was actually where she’d stopped or not, and Clint backtracked out. He risked running on his way back down the hallway, letting his feet remember where to step and where to not. When he reached the stairwell on the opposite side of the building, he swung himself over the railing, dangling his body into the space between the circling lines of the stairs.

Using the light from one of the few unbroken exit signs, he climbed down the railings, letting go of each bar slowly, so it wouldn’t ring out and echo in the dark. Just as he was getting down toward the fourth floor, he caught the quick flash of a shadow cast across darker shadow. He stopped moving, holding himself suspended between flights of stairs.

The shadow flashed again, and Clint realized she was making her way up the stairwell. She must have crossed the hotel the same way he had, and was now coming up at him from below. He wondered if it was dark enough here that she would again be unable to see him.

It wasn’t.

She had just about pulled even with him, and he was just about to reach out and grab her, when her eyes flicked to the side, and she spotted him. Her mouth formed a perfect little “o” as she gasped. She flung her body away from him, missing the edge of the step with her foot, and fell down on her ass.

Clint laughed hard enough that he lost his grip on one side of the bars, falling a half-floor before he managed to tumble himself back onto solid ground.

“What the fuck!” she yelled down at him in the dark. She’d recovered quickly and was sprinting up the stairs. “Who hangs out in the stairwell like that?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” he called back, pursuing quickly. Now that the sun was down, he doubted he’d ever find her again in the building. Not after all their close calls. If she disappeared again, she was going to hole herself up in the ceiling somewhere, and just pounce on him when he finally walked underneath.

She tried to lose him with speed for a few minutes, running down the halls, down the stairs, across the foyer, through the dining hall, back up the stairs. Then she tried being more elaborate, darting around through joining rooms and even managing to get into the elevator shaft. Clint almost lost her there, but managed to pull himself up onto the correct floor just in time to see her duck into one of the rooms.

He sprinted to the room, stuttering to a stop on the thin carpet. He peered into the darkness, and then stepped in. Feeling along the wall, he got his hand on the door to the adjoining room.

He twisted the doorknob, and then smirked when he found it locked. He backtracked the few steps he’d taken, and swung the door to the hallway closed behind him. She was trapped somewhere in the room, and the only way out with through him.

“The itsy-bitsy spider,” he sang softly, his voice echoing in the abandoned darkness. “Climbed up the waterspout.”

He shuffled forward a few more steps, guessing at where the bed would be. When his fingers finally touched the dusty mattress, he yanked the entire frame roughly. The metal scraped against the floor, deafening in the stillness.

“Down came the rain.”

He dragged the bed further, readjusted his grip, and dragged again.

“And washed the spider out.”

The bed frame was now blocking the door. She’d have to move it if she wanted to flee the room. Or, she’d have to _try_ and move it. He’d be on her before she could manage it.

“Up came the sun, and dried up all the rain.”

He cut himself off at the first sound from her. Her footfall against the some abandoned object on the floor. Her footsteps skittered away from it, as she realized she was made, but Clint moved quickly. She tried to circled around the room, maybe hoping to lose him in the darkness again, but he caught her arm and they both went down.

There was a brief struggle, but she gave in quickly, and Clint settled himself on top, straddling her waist. He leaned down, right next to her ear, and finished, “And the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.”

He laughed gently, as she kissed at his neck.

“Looks like you win,” she breathed.

“I don’t think you were really trying,” Clint admonished.

He felt her shrug beneath him. “Maybe not. But I’m not particularly patient, and we didn’t have all day.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“We should apply for vacation time, and play it across the world.”

“You want to apply for vacation time, so we can play hide-and-seek?”

“I’ll play for real.”

“Tempting.” He mouthed his way down her neck, sucking at her collarbone. He ran his tongue across the length of it, tasting her. “You’re very tempting.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He kissed her gently, then roughly, and then with abandon. When he drew back to readjust his position against her, she followed him up. They gasped against each other.

Clint’s fingers tugged at the strong elastic of her waistband, struggling to dig in enough to get a good grip. She flinched back from him, laughing.

“What?” he asked, trying again and getting his hand pushed away for his trouble.

“Your fingernails,” she explained, and then laughed again.

“My fingernails?”

“You’re scratching at my skin like it’s your first time trying to get my clothes off.”

“Hey! It’s _dark_ , remember?”

She hummed in amusement, slipping her own hand underneath her waistband and down between her legs. “Doesn’t seem that difficult to me.”

Clint groaned at the feel of her movements. “Not fair when it’s your own fucking body.”

“Oh? All you had to do was ask.”

She pulled her hand out, and played with the buckle of his waistband. She paused for a moment, to scratch her nails teasingly along the skin of his stomach, but then slipped her hand down.

Clint gasped softly, leaning his head forward on her shoulder and widening the stance of his knees on the ground. She wrapped her fingers around him, dragging down in a slow pull.

“You know what I was thinking?” she asked, pausing the movement of her fingers, and Clint could hear the damned smirk in her voice as she said it. “I was thinking about Athens. Did you know, I’ve never actually been?”

“Nat,” he whined against her shoulder. “Is this really the best time?”

“You don’t want to talk about Athens?” And there was that smirk again.

Clint twitched his hips against her light clasp, trying to get his own friction, but she just widened the loop of her fingers.

“I just think it’s weird that, out of all the places I’ve been, I somehow missed Athens. Of all places.”

“Natasha! You’re killing me here.”

“Oh!” she mock-realized. “I’m sorry! Were you wanting to fuck?”

“You are such a power-hungry little shit,” Clint whimpered, scooting his body up her thighs to try and get the friction back. “Kaylie was so right about you.”

“Kaylie?” This time there was no smirk in her question, and Clint sighed dramatically.

“Yes, Kaylie. She said some interesting things about our relationship that I would be thrilled to talk about at a _later date._ ”

“If you insist.”

***

Afterward, when Natasha was splayed across the dusty carpet in a warm haze, and Clint was curled up around her so worn out his muscles were trembling, Natasha brought it up quietly.

“What was it?” she asked.

“Mmm?” Clint sighed. “What was what?”

“What was it that Kaylie said?”

“Go to sleep, Nat. Go to sleep and hope there’s nothing crawling on these floors that will eat us while we dream.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.” She let the sentence hang in the dark for a moment, and then twisted her body around so she could entwine with Clint. They shuffled for a moment, settling, and then found the organization of limbs that let them both relax and breath. Contact point to contact point of skin against skin. Warmth against warmth.

“You have, too,” she breathed against him, just as he was drifting off.

“Have what?” he mumbled.

“Slept in worse places.”

Clint had a sudden memory of himself curled up under the concrete outcropping in that cell. His hands spasmed and he clutched her arm tightly. Enough to bruise. Her hands flew up to clasp his face, one on either cheek, and she put her forehead against his.

She breathed. Slowly and exaggeratedly. Forcing him to mimic her until he remembered that he was lying in the dark by choice. That he was naked against another body by choice. That he had spent three days with that man and it had fucked up his mind so badly that he was having panic attacks at the mere thought of remembering.

“How did you do it?” he murmured against her skin.

“Same way that you did.”

Clint could feel his awe somewhere behind his tongue. He struggled to find the words to make her understand. To convey the magnitude of the strength she must have had to be able to claw her way to sanity after an entire childhood with people like that.

Instead he clutched at her more tightly, and somehow, she understood.

***

When they finally did get around to discussing Kaylie’s idea, Natasha took it more calmly than Clint had expected.

“It’s not entirely outside of my realm of experience,” Natasha sighed, leaning against the wall. They were back at Clint’s apartment, sitting side-by-side on the bed. They had enforced a strict “no touching” rule for the duration of the conversation, and it was already getting under Clint’s skin.

“Meaning what?” he asked.

“Meaning I’ve ‘held the whip’ before. Just not with…you. Or any previous versions of you. And, it’s also worth noting, that they’ve been more along the ‘rough me up’ than ‘safe sane and consensual’ method of ‘whip holding.’ I think, with you, I’d need to learn a little bit of delicacy.”

“I can take a hit, Nat.”

“That’s not at all what I’m talking about. But it’s all beside the point, because I’m not even sure this is a good idea in principle.”

“Do you think it’ll be too hard on you?”

“I’m not the one I’m concerned about.” She was smiling, but it wasn’t a complete smile. It was wistful and thin. “If it’s really something that would make you happy, then I think I could manage it. And I can’t say I don’t find the idea appealing. Even if I have to fight through a shaky terror to get there. I’m just worried about how you’ll take it.”

“You think I’ll have a problem with it? I just told you. I can take a hit.”

“The fact that you keep coming back to that concerns me. I’ve been there, Clint. I know how you’ll think. I refuse to be the rock for you to beat yourself against.”

“So be my rock for me to anchor myself against.”

Natasha made a sound deep in her throat that no one born and raised speaking only English would ever be able to mimic. She thudded her head back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling.

Clint tried to wait her out and let her think about it. But he found himself shifting on the bed. He slid down lower, letting his shirt ride up, and bit his lips into debauched redness. He moved his legs to splay himself open submissively, becoming more and more unsubtle and grinning up at her.

“You think you’re so clever,” she snapped at him.

“I’ve been told I have a knack for subterfuge.”

“This is _not_ subterfuge. This is the opposite of subterfuge.”

“Is it working?”

“I’ll talk to Kaylie, all right? I’m not making any promises, but I’ll talk to her.”

Clint flipped over, mouth hovering just above her skin. “Does this mean the conversation is over?”

“You’re relentless. But yes, the no-touching rule is officially rescinded.”

He was kissing his way down her leg before she’d finished the sentence.


	11. Chapter 11

Natasha didn’t have time to talk to Kaylie for several days. After the game in the hotel, their repertoire was more or less fine, so the discussion didn’t seem as important. There was something more prevalent on the team’s mind.

Clint already had been debriefed on the events of the incidence, but the consensus seemed to be that Clint needed to talk to the prisoner. Apparently, the interrogation team couldn’t see a problem with allowing him to talk to Clint.

Natasha could.

“It’s going to be fine,” Clint sighed again. “I know why he wants to talk to me, but you wouldn’t let him escape or anything like that. So he thinks he can gain something from talking to me? Well, _he’s_ the prisoner in this situation.”

“Yes,” Natasha soothed. “Yet I learned how to make an advantage out of anything, especially being held prisoner. Sometimes, it’s even better.”

Clint shook his head. “Maybe, but his play against me in that cell was power. Power over me and my mind and my pain. Power over my situation. It’s hard to do that while you’re tied to a chair.”

Natasha raised one delicate eyebrow. “I hope you’re not unpleasantly surprised.”

In the end, however, Clint won out, and they made their way down to acquisitions. The two of them exchanged pleasantries with the man at the front desk, and soon found themselves escorted down the winding hallways to the deep room.

“Did they ever get his name?” Clint asked their guide, Demay.

“He never gave it, but we did eventually get a hit off facial recognition. Tagged him as Matvei Dobrynin.”

“Where did it pick him up from?” Natasha asked.

Demay shrugged. “We’re not exactly sure, really. He has some connections with some sketchy shit over in Russia a couple decades ago, but then he dropped off the face of the earth. No one has seen him in at least three years.”

Clint glanced over at Natasha who was staring down at the floor as they walked.

“Anything in particular you want me to try and get out of him?” Clint asked, when Natasha didn’t seem like she was had any follow up questions.

“Honestly, he’s been pretty tight-lipped. Impressively so. We’ll be thrilled with whatever you can do. Ideally, we’d love the decryption key for their database. And we’d prefer to get it without having to send it to Stark.”

Clint laughed humorlessly. “Well there’s some personal motivation for me. I don’t think I really want Stark digging around in those files. Who knows what’s in them.”

Natasha ran a hand down the back of his arm in comfort, just as Demay came to a stop in front of a set of doors. “He’s all yours, Barton. We’ll be watching, obviously. Agent Romanov can come with me.”

“Like hell,” Clint said, at the same time that Natasha spat something in Russian that was too quick for Clint to catch.

Demay put up his hands in surrender. “Hey, it’s your call. I just thought you’d want to be the only one in there. That’s what the asshole keeps demanding. But it’s your interrogation.”

“Claws in,” Clint murmured to Natasha, and then twisted the doorknob.

The scene wasn’t really what Clint had been expecting. He knew that Matvei had been there several days, but he hadn’t thought it through. The man’s face was a mess, split lips and black eye and all. He’d obviously been cleaned up, and there were several stitches hold together a gash that curved under his chin and down his neck.

Clint’s eyes tracked down the man quickly, taking the whole appearance in. Slouching down in the chair he was cuffed to, shirt unbuttoned and legs splayed out. Without the electrical burn scars visible on his chest, he almost looked comfortable.

“Clinton,” Matvei greeted him, small smile stretching the thin lips.

And suddenly Clint couldn’t breathe with how quickly he was back in South America, cold drug itching under his skin. His hands clenched tightly, and his heart rate stuttered up to a quickening beat. His body felt flushed and the room spun.

Then Natasha was there, pressed up against his back. He could smell her in the air around him, and he reached back quickly to press two fingers to the inside of her wrist. The fabric of her sleeve brushed the back of his hand as he counted the rhythm of her heartbeat.

Matvei’s small smile turned down.

“I see you brought your guard dog with you,” he sneered.

“Sucks for you,” Clint smiled back, amicably. “I heard you wanted to talk to me.”

“I did. And you took long enough. Disappointing, really. I thought I’d taught you better than that.”

Clint’s grip on Natasha wrist tightened to a tension that must have been painful, but she didn’t say anything.

“Well, I’m a very busy man. Priorities and all that. Lots of eccentric Russian assholes in violation of the Geneva Convention for me to round up.”

“You’re being rude, Clinton.”

“Which is my prerogative.”

He took a deep breath and slowly let go of Natasha’s wrist. He held the pattern of her pulse in his head, marking time with it against his own. He crossed the room and climbed up to sit on the small metal table, facing his former captor. He couldn’t hear Natasha’s footsteps, but he knew she was somewhere close behind him.

“Now,” Clint continued. “I think this is the perfect moment to talk about the end goal of what you were doing back there. When we first met.”

Matvei sighed heavily. Exaggeratedly. And didn’t answer.

Clint moved his legs so his toes rested on the edge of Matvei’s chair, carefully between the man’s splayed legs.

“Should I repeat the question?”

“Oh, Clinton. You know that to get something you want you have to give something in exchange. That was among our first lessons.”

Clint leaned forward, reaching out to gesture at the electrical burns on the man’s chest. “Looks like you’ve been learning some lessons of your own.” His fingers reached closer than he’d intended, and he brushed the man’s skin.

The touched was warm underneath his fingers, which somehow surprised Clint. As if he’d been expecting ice. He repeated the touch, this time running his fingers in a slow circled around one of the marks.

Matvei was relaxed, eyes open and calm. At peace with the movement of skin against skin.

“Clint,” Natasha murmured from behind him, and Clint snapped his hands back, running it over his face as though to wipe something away.

“Wow,” he sighed. “That shitty concoction of yours really did a number on me, huh? Let me guess. You’re the kind of kid who grew up using Rohypnol?”

The relaxed look in Matvei’s eyes was gone, and he was fixing his stare on Natasha instead.

“Eyes on me,” Clint ordered, snapping his fingers. “And you probably need to know something about the girl behind me, since you seem so curious. You should keep in mind that I’m currently between you and her. Like a shield. Because I’m sure she’s got a long list of things she’d like to do to you. Things that would put our short time together in South America to shame.”

“Черная вдова. I’m aware of her program and all its marvelous talents. I’m so sorry, my dear, for ignoring you until this moment. I simply did not recognize you. Not like this.”

“Clint,” Natasha said again, but this time is was not to comfort him. Rather, it was to warn. Or to beg.

“I do have to tell you, Clinton,” Matvei continued, even as Clint looked back over his shoulder toward Natasha. “I don’t think your little threat will pan out so well. Вы принадлежит кому-то, little spider.”

Because Clint was watching her when the phrase slipped from Matvei’s mouth, he saw the reaction in each step. First, there was the barest flicker of confusion. As if she didn’t know what the phrase meant, or as if she didn’t understand what it was supposed to do.

Then, her whole face wiped blank. There was no expression and almost no movement. Her eyes focused somewhere in the distance and her lips parted slightly.

Clint only had enough time to take one step toward her before the blankness disappeared and was replaced by a third expression. This one was cold steel. A different type of empty. He’d only seen that expression on her face once, and it had been up on the rooftop at their first meeting. That had been her expressions when she’d slashed at his throat with the intention of killing him and no intention to feel sorry about it later.

He rushed to take back his step forward, his thighs hitting the edge of the table behind him.

But then her face twisted, and she shut her eyes tight. She turned her head away and dug her fingers into her hair. Like she was trying to wrench herself free of something wrapped around her head and neck.

Her knees buckled under her and she fell to the floor.

“Trigger phrase,” she managed to choke out. “My ‘come home’ trigger phrase.”

Clint turned on his heel to glare at Matvei, but the man just laughed, eyes still tracking Natasha where she struggled on the floor.

Clint felt both overwhelmed with pride that Natasha had managed to disobey the trigger and angry that she’d had to. He vacillated between strangling the man right then and going to help Natasha.

In the end, he went to help Natasha.

She’d almost gotten her feet back, one hand bracing herself against the wall, when Matvei spoke again.

“Вы принадлежит кому-то,” he repeated. “And not by this circus freak.”

Her knees buckled again, and Clint nearly lost his own footing at the insult that stung unnaturally deep.

_Cold metal and dark rooms that gave way to bright lights and deep pain. At least the pain was something more than the nothingness. He hated how he loved the sharp bite of steel against his wrists._

He shook the feeling off and ducked down to wrap one of Natasha’s arms over his shoulder. It got her feet back under her and she took a shaky step to the door, just as it opened suddenly from the outside.

Demay and another man in a suit helped pull the two of them across the doorway, just as Matvei called out again.

“Вы принадлежит кому-то, little predator. And you would do well to remember it.”

The door slammed shut on anything else he had to say.

“Anyone want to explain what just happened?” Demay snapped.

“Well,” Clint grimaced. “Looks like Nat’s got a trigger phrase. And looks like I didn’t even need one.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Natasha panted from where she was leaning against the wall. “You did fine, all things considered.”

“Can you _not_ think about me for two seconds,” Clint sighed.

“Is someone going to explain what happened or not?” Demay interjected.

“Or not,” Natasha snapped. “I’m sure you’ll have a full report, written to your satisfaction, on your desk before you know it.”

Demay’s mouth twitched, but Clint interjected before the man could say anything.

“It’s not a power play thing, sir. It’s really just that if you want a coherent report, the you probably should wait for it. We’re not feeling too good at the moment. Permission to be dismissed?”

Demay looked back and forth between the two of them, eyes lingering on where Natasha’s fingers clutched tightly at the hem of Clint’s jacket.

“Fine. Dismissed. But you better mean it about that report.”

They both murmured their “yes sirs” and began the weary journey back out of the winding cold hallways. They actually managed to make it all the way out to the parking lot, Clint sliding into the driver’s seat with Natasha in the passenger’s. They both slammed the doors shut with a slightly off rhythm one-two.

“You’ve never mentioned a trigger phrase before,” Clint said. He was trying to keep it from sounding like an accusation, but he was having difficulty pulling it off.

“It’s not a trigger phrase that I was meant to remember,” she explained. “There are probably others in there somewhere, meant to be used if I’d ever found my own footing and fled from them.”

“Well, fuck,” Clint sighed, leaning his head back against the headrest.

“Sounds good to me,” Natasha responded quickly pulled her legs up and twisting around so was she kneeling on the chair. She leaned over with one hand braced on the center console and took Clint into a deep kiss.

Clint didn’t asked questions, quickly fumbling about with the seat’s lever until he could recline the chair more. Natasha used the extra room to get one leg over Clint so she was kneeling on either side of Clint’s thighs.

They groped like teenagers for a moments, as though they’d forgotten each other’s bodies, until Natasha got enough of her control back to develop a rhythm in the way she rocked up and down in Clint’s lap. It was when her fingers trailed down to unbutton and unzip Clint’s pants, then he pulled away from her.

“We are in a SHIELD parking lot,” he reminded her, still breathing heavily.

“Yeah. And?” she answered,  keeping her rhythm and just moving her kisses down his neck. Clint had to tilt his head up to look at the roof of the car in order to accommodate her insistence.

“And yeah it’s dark, but don’t think for one moment that there aren’t video cameras here. Like, _everywhere_ here.”

“Yeah. And?”

“I’m 100% that we’d get nasty emails about this tomorrow.”

“Yeah. And?”

Clint thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. “And I 100% don’t care.” He went back to kissing at her mouth, and she obligingly went back to getting his pants undone.

Clint took the opportunity to dig his own fingers under her waistband. He slid them around to the front, searching for the clasp, but eventually had to pull away from her mouth again so he could speak.

“How the fuck do you get these open?” he complained.

“I made some personal modifications,” she laughed. “You’ll probably need my help. It’s a good things I have a reputation for my flexibility.”

They didn’t waste any more time after that, devoting their efforts wholly to the task at hand, a little afraid a strike team would knock on the car window at any moments.

When they’d spent themselves out, Natasha tumbled back to her own seat, leaving her legs stretched out across Clint’s lap as she leaned back against the passenger-side door.

“If you’re gonna do that again, next time wear a skirt or something,” Clint teased. “That was a lot of effort.” He turned the key in the ignition, reaching quickly to turn off the music that automatically came on.

“It’s hardly the most effort we’ve ever gone to,” Natasha responded, reaching and turning the music back on. She flipped stations for a while, as Clint drove the car out of the garage and through the checkpoints. By the time they were back in the city, she’d settled on some generic 90s rock and had turned the volume all the way up. Clint rolled down the windows to accommodate the sound.

***

Later that night, when the sound of the rain and thunder keeping time against their window was almost drowned out by the sound of the city around them, when they were naked with cold skin against cold skin as they held each other in the dark, when each was trying to themselves breath in rhythm with the other so as to disturb them as little as possible, Clint whispered quietly into her ear.

“Are you ok?”

She didn’t respond for a long time, but her breathing changed immediately. When she did speak, her voice was quiet and matter-of-fact.

“I’m ok enough. Beyond that, it doesn’t really matter anyway.”

“Bullshit. Of course it matters. We’ll do something tomorrow. Something different. I’ll think of something.”

“Oh? What about you? You didn’t come out of that room whole either.”

Clit shrugged. “Actually, I might have come out more whole than when I went in. Not that that whole interview wasn’t weird and kinda awful, but I’d obviously had some of the conditioning still lingering around in the back of my mind. Making submission seem so natural. Confronting it like that was nice to have done. Even if doing it sucked.”

“Fair enough. But I can’t do anything tomorrow anyway. I’ve got a mission.”

Clint sat up at that. He leaned across her and clicked on the bedside table lamp so he could stare down at her. She flipped over onto her back so she could look up at him.

“I have a mission,” she repeated. “Tomorrow. It’s a little one day thing. I’ll be back by Sunday.”

“You can’t go on a mission right now. You’re not fine. You can’t just pretend you’re fine after something like that.”

“I’m not pretending that I’m fine. I’m doing my job. I’ve been wounded before. Shot and cut up and full of so many drugs that my mind shouldn’t even work properly anymore. I was expected to do my job then, even though no one was claiming that I was fine. I’m wounded now, yes. I’m not fine. But just like a bullet, this is something to be fought through.”

“People don’t fight through bullets,” Clint argued. “They go to hospitals.”

“They go to hospitals later,” she corrected gently. “They go to hospitals when the information is acquired. When the target is down. When their friends and loved ones are a little more safe. They go to hospitals when the mission is complete. And when my missions is complete, I will come home to you.”

“Fine,” Clint caved, laying back down next to her and leaving the light on. He folded himself around her, and she curved herself into him, face pressed to his chest and head tucked underneath his chin. “Can you at least tell me what you’re going to be doing?”

“I can’t,” she mumbled into his skin. “It’s need to know.”

“Of course it is.”

It was the first time she’d lied to him and gotten away with it.

***

Fourteen hours later, Natasha stumbled out of a hotel. She teetered on high heels and slightly more full of champagne than she’d meant to be. God, her target had been persistent about the fucking champagne. Persistent enough that she’d checked it for drugs every time he poured her a new glass. The test had never come back positive, but it hadn’t made her any less paranoid.

She checked her hand again, disliking how off the alcohol realigned her senses, and was relieved to find the copied key card still clutched in her palm. The original was back in her target’s jacket pocket, and no one was the wiser for the copy. The whole mission had all been textbook perfect.

She really should put the keycard more secure, rather than holding it in her hand. Especially with how much she’d drunk.

God, she hadn’t thought it had been that much.

Except…

Except, she’d known exactly how much it had been. She’d accepted the first drink, and downed it too quickly. The key to that sort of thing was to sip slowly and to leave half-empty glasses lying around and then ask for another. Manipulate your target into drinking more than you. Faster than you.

But she accepted that glass and then another glass and told herself it was for the mission. Because a laughing tipsy warm Natasha made a better performance than any alternative. Because it was the first time she’d pulled a full-blown honeypot since she’d been with SHIELD. Because she might be off her game and do something stupid like kill the man when he first trailed a hand up under her dress.

She hadn’t killed the man. Not when he put his hands up under her dress, and not when he’d put them anywhere else. She’d followed the protocol, satisfying the target—who was still more drunk than she was even with her reckless abandon—and waited for him to fall asleep.

She’d been a little afraid her own drowsiness would put her down for the count, but she’d managed to keep her eyes open. She’d managed to fish out the keycard and make the copy and slip out into the hall and down the stairs and out the backdoor. She made it down the alley in wobbling heels and had finally managed to get the stupid card in her little clutch purse that she had thankfully not forgotten and left in the hotel room.

Her underwear though. Shit she’d left her underwear. She knew because she could suddenly feel the thick dripping at the top of her thighs. She debated going back up, figured she’d slit the man’s throat where he slept, and decided against it.

God, she was so drunk. She couldn’t go anywhere like this. She’d probably have trouble placing an extraction call.

She hailed a cab instead, climbing into the backseat and waving enough money in the air that the driver was willing to make the effort to understand her. She had to flip through a few languages before she found the right one for this country, but she made herself understood eventually.

She passed out in the car, head against the window, and it was sheer luck that the driver woke her by yelling rather than by trying something stupid like touching her. Once she’d overpaid, she climbed out of the car and up the steps of the cheap motel. The man at the front desk gave her a look that made her make a mental note to put a chair in front of the door or something. Or maybe he’d just been concerned by her running mascara and shallow breathing.

She put the chair in front of the door anyway. Then thought it through and also managed to move the cheap fake-wood desk. After that she turned on the shower, getting in with all her clothes on and just throwing them one by one out of the shower. Water was running across the floor as she sat down on the floor of the shower.

 _Need to know_ , she’d told Clint. And he never needed to know.

***

She told him anyway. She told him on her hands and knees while she kissed at his feet and apologized in every language that came to mind. He walked in circles while he tried not to trip over her and said every curse he could think of.

There was screaming and silence and bit lips and it-was-the-mission-what-they-fuck-was-I-supposed-to-do and anything-but-that.

In the end they sat side-by-side on the floor. She was curled up in a little ball with her back barely touching the bed behind them. He was splayed out loosely, with his head lying on the bed as he stared up at the ceiling and his legs stretched haphazardly across the floor.

“I do what I’m told, Clint,” she said. “I was told to do the mission.”

“Fuck that. Fuck everything, but fuck that especially.” He was too tired to do anything but curse vaguely up at the whitewashed ceiling.

“I’m going to talk to Kaylie tomorrow,” she told him.

“Why?”

“Because I want to take you up on that proposition. It’s time for me to learn to hold the whip.”

He managed to turn his head so he could look over at her wearily. She was staring down at the floor with a smoldering intensity.

“You think it’s time for you to hold the whip?” he echoed.

“I think it’s time I learn to do something other than obey.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for tonight’s episode we’re featuring “sorry this took me so long” and guest starring “hey look, more kinks I didn’t know I was into.” Possible appearances from “transitions? pft, who needs transitions?”

Natasha had tucked herself into the far corner of Kaylie’s room sometime in the middle of the night. She’d watched the agent sleep for a while, but had quickly grown antsy with the stillness. She’d eventually just put her forehead to her knees in an attempt to get some rest herself.

It didn’t really work, per se, but she did manage to let her mind drift in a vacant haze for the remaining hours of the night. Her body instinctively woke her a few seconds before Kaylie’s alarm went off.

When it did go off, there was some cursing and the sounds of thrashing around in sheets, and then the bedside lamp clicked on. Kaylie raised her head, looked around the room aimlessly, and then screamed loudly when she saw Natasha.

Her hand reached toward the nearby dresser drawer, which presumably held some sort of weapon, but she stopped when she recognized Natasha.

“Honey,” she chastised. “One day you’re going to pull this shit with some who has faster reflexes than I do, and you’re going to get yourself shot.”

“They’d have to have faster reflexes than _I_ do to actually shoot me,” Natasha murmured into her knees.

Kaylie decided to ignored the statement, and pulled herself up into sitting position so she was leaning back against the headboard.

“Well?” she asked. “Are you going to come up here and join me, or not? I assume there’s something you want to talk to me about.”

Natasha stood fluidly and walked over to the bed. She sank down onto it, and then curled herself up next to Kaylie like a cat.

Kaylie’s eyes widened slightly, but she gave no other indication of her surprise. Instead, she reach out and pet Natasha’s head gently. She ran her fingers through the young assassin’s hair, changing her own position into a crisscross-applesauce arrangement so she could lean over Natasha.

“Did something happen?” she asked gently.

“I made Clint really mad.”

“Oh?” Kaylie didn’t stop carding, pushing through the strands so she could draw her fingernails across Natasha’s scalp. “So why aren’t you in there working it through with him?”

“We did work through it. It was a stupid error. I was stupid and put the mission first, and I didn’t know I was allowed to say no.”

“He’s angry because you put a mission first? That seems a little hypocritical of him. He’s an agent, too. He knows how it goes. Can you tell me about the mission, or am I going to have to submit a request for the file?”

“I let a target fuck me.”

“Oh.”

They stayed silent for a while after that, Natasha trembling beneath Kaylie’s repetitive motions. They kept their position until the gentle shaking had calmed, and Natasha felt herself lulling into sleep. She hadn’t slept since she’d passed out drunk on the floor of the motel, and that really hadn’t been all that restful.

“Natasha?” Kaylie pulled her back to consciousness.

“Yes?”

“I’m assuming that you and Clint have come to understanding about how this kind of mission will be handled in the future?”

“Yeah. ’M not gonna let some guy _fuck_ me,” Natasha spat. The tension was returning to her body, and Kaylie shushed her gently, moving one hand to rub Natasha’s neck.

“Seems like a good starting point. Not sure if it’s a great ending point, but it sounds like you guys are working on it. What that leaves me wondering, however, is why you’re here. Not that I’m complaining. Heaven knows you and I rarely get the chance to hang out. But you came specifically to me. In the middle of the night, I might add. So what are you looking for?”

“Clint thinks that it’s time I take more control of our relationship. That way I’ll learn the difference between something I have to do and something I choose to do.”

“Yes, he and I have discussed the subject. What does that have to do with your presence here?”

“I don’t know _how_! How am I supposed to learn how to do something by doing it? That doesn’t make any sense. You can’t do something before you know it. Someone has to teach you.”

“Then how does anything ever get discovered? Someone has to be the first one to do something. The first ever dom and sub couple, whoever they were, had to figure it out all on their own. Apparently, they managed.”

“I’m not nearly clever enough to figure it out on my own.”

Kaylie reached out and slapped Natasha’s ass, hard enough that Natasha gasped in surprise.

“Hey! Since when do you randomly spank people?”

“Everyone who inappropriately disparages themselves in front of me gets spanked,” Kaylie smirked. “It’s my personal policy.”

“That must make for some interesting incidents in the office staff room.”

“Don’t think that you being a smart ass is going to derail where this conversation is heading. You want to change your dynamic with Clint, then you’re going to have to figure it out with him. I can’t tell you what to do. Now, if you have a tactical question, I might be able to help with that.”

“Tactical?”

“As in, how to bind a joint or when to pull back on the strike of a cane. But you’re the one he knows and trusts, and vice versa. Any advice I could give you would have to be heavily filtered through your own perception. He’d never let me into his head enough for me to learn the subtle difference between a cry of pain and a cry of painful pleasure. That one’s on you, sweetheart.”

Natasha made a noise of discontent, but didn’t have any actual objections.

“So?” Kaylie prompted. “What are you thinking?”

“About what?”

“I just said I can give you tactical advice. Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind for your first time, and I’ll see if I have any good feedback?”

“Do you have time? Your alarm went off. Don’t you have someplace to be?”

“Just paperwork, and I’m definitely not in any rush to get to it. I’m all yours. So let’s talk strategy.”

***

When Clint stumbled into the apartment, he was trying to plan out the schedule of the next week in his head. It was going to be crazy, jumping between three different countries within four different missions spread across eastern Europe. It was one of those, “if one thing goes wrong then the whole week is fucked” kind of schedules.

All the tactical planning he was trying to run through his head, contacts and pre-set cover IDs, stuttered to a halt when he opened the door to the apartment. The scent of apple cider was everywhere. He had to force himself to take deep breaths to overcome the sensation of suffocation. The apartment was both warmer and darker than usual, and Clint found himself looking around the apartment in confusion.

Any shot he might have had at articulation was lost when he saw Natasha. She was perched on the edge of the bed with crossed legs, and she was looking at Clint with an amused expression he could only assume stemmed from the confused perusal he’d just been giving the apartment.

Which was all well and good, but what caught and kept his eyes was what she was wearing. Or, rather, what she was not wearing. There was the black and red lingerie, the black heels, and pretty much nothing else. She was seated on the edge of the bed, with crossed legs, keeping time with the swing of one heeled foot. It gave her an air of impatience, and something inside Clint fluttered in sudden fear.

“Strip,” she ordered, and he rushed to obey.

In his hurry, there was a slight mishap with chronological order, and he ended up trying to get his pants off before his shoes. The fabric twisted and took Clint’s legs with it. He ended up on the floor in a tangled pile of limbs and clothing.

He laughed up at Natasha, amused at his own antics, and then grinned cheekily, hoping to get a laugh from her. Instead, she raised one eyebrow, and her mouth turned down even further.

Clint swallowed hard, and focused his entire attention on getting the rest of his clothes off in the proper order. When he started to struggle to his feet, however, she snapped her fingers sharply, and he froze.

“You think it’s funny to be on the floor?” she asked. “Then stay there.” Her voice was soft, but it carried to every corner and Clint shivered in the heat of the room.

He crawled, obediently, with his eyes fixed on her while she critiqued his movements. Her foot still swung impatiently, and Clint hurried to make it to her.

When he made it across the room, and was just about to rest his head on her knee, she stood up quickly enough that Clint skittered backward to avoid the bite of her stiletto heels. Which made her pause.

“Scared of them?” she asked, gesturing down at the dangerous looking heels.

When Clint didn’t answer, she crouched down and took his right hand in hers. She spread his fingers and then pressed his hand to the floor, palm down, with his fingers splayed out. Clint could feel the grain of the wood against the whole of his hand.

She stood up then, leaving him kneeling at her feet with his hand still spread on the floor. Then she carefully placed the heel of one of her shoes on the back of Clint’s hand.

He could tell from the lack of weight that she was balancing on her other foot, but it didn’t do anything to calm him. The thin edge of the heel was position right over his carpal bones. If she stepped down all the way, one or more of them would fracture. Tendons would tear, and he’d need surgery if he ever wanted to fire a bow again.

He breathed shakily, with white cold fear in his stomach that sweated its way out to his skin. He vacillated between trusting her to not to do that kind of damage and fear that she wouldn’t know better. Her first handlers had done worse things.

“Scared of them, now?” she asked again.

“Yes,” Clint responded shakily.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t really want to have surgery.” The attempt at humor fell flat with the tremor in his voice.

“You think I’d break your hand? For shying away from me?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“Would you? Would you break _my_ hand? For any reason. Not just for something so minute.”

“Never.”

She leaned down, bending at the waist, yet still keeping the entirety of her weight on the foot not hovering precariously over Clint’s hand. He felt her fingers brush through his hair, even though he kept his eyes on the threat to his hand.

“Oh, my little assassin,” she breathed in his ear. “I have been following your lead since I came to my knees at your feet in that warehouse. What makes you think I would stop now?”

The sound Clint made in response almost didn’t sound human, and his eyes finally made it off his hands and up to her face.

It seemed to be what she’d been waiting for, because she moved her foot, setting it back down on the hardwood floor with a soft clack. Then she ordered Clint up onto the bed, and he was quick to obey. This time, without falling on his ass.

He was a little surprised to find himself automatically on his hands and knees, but she didn’t reposition him. Instead she seemed to be ignoring him completely, choosing instead to rearrange something outside of his line of sight.

He fought the urge to turn and look at whatever she was doing, sensing that it wouldn’t be allowed. However, he did listen instead. There was the clink of glass and some soft shuffling of plastic across the wood of the nightstand.

And then there was the soft snick of a lighter, and he suddenly understand the pervasive smell of apple in the air. She’d lit a candle.

His whole body tensed in rigid anticipation, and he couldn’t help but realize how hard he was getting at the sheer unknown of it all. When the two of them had played in the past, he had _always_ known exactly what was going to happen. He had known exactly what was coming next, and how it was going to play out.

Somehow, even the anticipation of burning pain was overshadowed by the anticipation of the unknown.

He jumped, startled, when her hands returned to his skin. She ran her fingers up and down his back until the gentle friction built up into a numbness. He sighed heavily and let his head drop down. It pushed his shoulders back, and she moved her fingers to trace the the curve of his protruding shoulder blades.

He wanted to beg her for something, but he didn’t know what it was, and he wasn’t brave enough to break the silence anyway. Instead, he just listened to the soundless hum in the back of his mind, breaking his attention into little pieces.

He could feel the warmth of her hands on his back and the soft currents of air against the rest of his him. He could hear the sizzle of the open flame somewhere behind him and the rustle of fabric beneath his hands and knees. The floorboards creaked somewhere else in the building as a stranger made their way down the hall. Cars outside revved and braked and turned. He could imagine the click of their blinkers and the laugh of two people on the street below.

“Turn over,” she said, and he did so.

The room seemed to rotate around him, rather than him actually moving, and then he was staring at the ceiling. He was content to just lie there for a while, but then he noticed that he could look around him again. He could see the heating wax on the nightstand, bright red and ready to drip, but his eyes were quickly drawn to the foot of the bed, where Natasha was bending over his legs.

He smiled then, because she was so pretty when she was so focused. Her head tilted to the side, even as she bent it to get a better look at what she was doing. She didn’t so much wrinkle her face up in concentration, but he could tell anyway. Something about how her eyes focused in the light and how far they dilated.

He realized, suddenly, that she was tying his legs securely in a folded pattern. Not that that fact held his attention for long. He was more concerned with the way her hair was tumbling over her shoulder. If she would just dip her head a little bit more, then that soft hair would just reach his legs.

He strained the muscles in his neck in an effort to will her head further down. He wanted to feel the brush of it against him. He wanted its gentle kiss and if she didn’t let it brush him soon he was going to move, consequences be damned.

A few moments later, he lost the fight with abandon, bending his leg up enough that the ends of her hair just touched his knee. He sighed in relief, even as she then drew her head back and removed the sensation.

She turned her head and looked at him in disapproval, sitting back on her heels. Her lips turned down and she raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

“Mine,” Clint slurred at her.

“Yours?” she asked. She jerked the rope she was restraining him with, and he could feel the bite of it around his legs. “I think it’s rather the other way around right now, isn’t it? I’m not yours. You are _mine_.”

He hadn’t realized just how complex the pattern of the white rope was until that moment. It wrapped all around his ankles and thighs and even looped up to his hips. The intense restriction didn’t bother him at all, and he just kept smiling. He felt drunk with admiration, and it must have been flagrant on his face, because her eyes softened.

He kept staring at her even when she returned to her task. Eventually, as his eyes trailed down her body, he made it to her hands, and recognized the pattern she was making with the rope.

A hemp spider web, stretched across his hips, holding his knees bent and splayed out so that his feet were tucked all the way up to his balls. It was so both expected and unexpected that he laughed before he could stop himself.

She looked up at him again, as the gentle sound, but she wasn’t even pretending to be annoyed anymore. She tsked at him, and then crawled up the bed so she was kneeling over him and suddenly lingerie was his favorite thing in the entire fucking world.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the whole of her right in front of his eyes, even when he felt the bed shifting and he realized that she’d reached out and taken the candle from beside the bed.

“Laughing at me?” she murmured. “You realize that you’re literally asking for it, don’t you?”

“Sorry. It was just so ‘on the nose.’ ”

Clint moaned a little, when she drew back, and suddenly his entire attention was on the candle as it tipped. Further. And then further. The small drizzle, when it fell, glinted in the light of its candle.

And then it burned. The heat of it against his chest was still startling, even though he’d been watching it fall. He whimpered at the intensity and he reflexively jerked his arms to try and cover his chest.

“I don’t think so,” she chided, putting the candle back in its place. “I guess we’ll have to do something about those arms, too. Fold them over your chest.”

The pain had brought him back down to earth a little, and he was awake enough to watch her repeat the spider web pattern on his arms and hands. The wax had cooled and hardened on his chest, and he could feel the unyielding nature of it against his skin.

He had the sudden image of drowning in wax, unable to breath and slowly losing the ability to move as it hardened around him.

Natasha must have felt the mood change under her, because she was suddenly filling his field of vision. She kissed him gently, and then roughly, until he couldn’t breathe not because of wax in his lungs but because of her. The sensation of deep apple and stiff wax faded in the soft press of her against his mouth.

When he’d calmed down again, she returned to her task, though she kept taking breaks at even intervals to run her hands up and down his arms. He began keeping a count in his head, for when she would stop and touch him, and the constant repetition of numbers kept him calm until she was finished.

“Ready?” she asked, and he nodded.

His heart rate fluttered when he realized she was putting a blindfold on him, but then the darkness actually seemed to help. Silk, he realized suddenly. It was a silk tie that she’d wrapped round his head. He wondered idly where she’d gotten it, since there certainly weren’t any in the apartment.

He liked the feel of it, though. It didn’t slide rough, but rather whispered across his skin. He breathed in a square pattern. In for a count of four, hold for a count of four, out for a count of four, hold for a count of four.

Which was all well and good until the drip of hot wax against his stomach threw the whole pattern off. Instead, he just gasped for a moment, trying to find the rhythm, but it wasn’t allowed. The next drips followed closely behind the first.

She let him rest for a while after that, although the time didn’t give him much peace. She didn’t make a sound when she moved, and there was no warning before each—

He jerked at the next burning drops that pulled him from his thoughts, and he swore under his breath.

He had at least began to anticipate where each drip was going to go. Besides the earlier ones on his chest, each set had been in a pattern of concentric circles. A few drops in the middle of his stomach, and then a small circle around that, with a larger circle following.

He wasn’t sure if it was a target or another spider web, but it didn’t really matter. The circles were widening, dipping lower and lower with each one. Not to mention that, the larger the circle the longer it took. She was doing each round in one go, so the length of the burning drips was taking longer and longer.

“Nat!” he broke down and begged her when the circles got low enough that the wax touched the ropes around his hips. The sensitive skin of his thighs around his dripping cock was too much, and he either needed to come or peel his skin clean of the waxy strips.

“I know,” she assured him, and he breathed deep.

She pulled the blindfold off over his head, and he blinked in the relative light and breathed deep. His body was covered with the red wax and he still couldn’t tell if it was a target or a spider web and it still didn’t matter.

She laid down on top of him, and he could feel the patches of open skin on himself from where they touched her.

“Are you going to take these ropes off?” he managed to ask. “Cause this next bit might be a little difficult if I’m this…restricted.”

“Oh, baby,” she laughed. “Just trust me.”

***

Afterward, when they were splayed out and spent, she curled up into his side and whispered, “Did I do it right?”

Clint laughed into the darkness, running his fingers up and down his own stomach. Most of the wax had been rubbed off by their movement against each other, but he could still feel the heat. Hell, he was pretty sure that, if they turned on the lights, his skin would still be slightly red in her burned rings.

“That’s not an answer,” she persisted.

“Yes, you did it right. I don’t know why you assumed you’d be anything less than perfect. I look forward to a repeat performance some time in the future. Though, perhaps, will a little more warning.”

She hummed noncommittally, causing him to turn and kiss her forehead.

“What?” he asked. “You don’t want to repeat the experience?”

“Well, maybe someday. It’s not like I didn’t enjoy myself. But…”

“If you want something, you have to ask for it.”

“But not all the time,” she finished. “As much fun as this was, I’m still going to need you over me. I can’t just leave behind the structure of my own mind at a moment’s notice.”

Clint wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in closer to himself.

“If you think that I’m ready to give up my right to make you scream and beg until such moment as I see fit to undo you complete, then you seriously underestimate how it feels to see you like that. Trust me. The success of tonight doesn’t mean I’m just handing over my position in this relationship.”

She hummed again, this time with more happiness than detachment.

“So,” he continued. “Then do you think we might repeat this experience in the future?”

“I do have some ideas.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Not a chance. You don’t get to know them until I write them on your skin.”

He moaned and kissed her again, and this time she tilted up her face to kiss him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The very nsfw reference picture can be found [here](http://blessedfbodies.tumblr.com/post/77585664442/spiderman-was-there).


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of past abuse.

It was her own fault really, Natasha thought to herself. She’d all but asked Clint to wear the sleeveless gray tank top, even though it was kind of a pro/con outfit. Pro because when he wore it, she got to stare at his arms. Con because it made the higher end boutiques look at them like they were going to steal merchandise.

What she hadn’t anticipated was that Clint had demanded to swing by some outlets malls first. They’d somehow ended up in a food court that was far far away from any boutiques and, more to the point, the social culture that went with it.

Which was all to say that Natasha had spent the last hour watching in amusement while multiple groups of girls had giggled their way past Clint without even trying to hide their open ogling.

Natasha hadn’t really minded. She was no stranger to open admiration, and Clint’s responses were hilarious. The more high pitched the giggles got, the more he strutted about. It had gotten to the point that she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started flexing right there in the parking lot.

And then Tracy had showed up.

Tracy was not with a group of girls and had ended up doing a lot more than walking by and giggling. In a feat of social manipulation that left even Natasha a little impressed, she’d seated herself at their table as they ate, and was invading Clint’s personal space enough that even he was getting uncomfortable.

Natasha still found the entire thing amusing. The girl was obviously unarmed, and Clint had gotten to the point that he was physically leaning away from the girl. So Natasha just leaned back in the chair and silently watched the exchange.

“Have you guys been down to the harbor, yet?” Tracy cooed. “Some of the outlets down there have their summer sales just starting. It’s sure to be crowded, but if you don’t mind elbowing people out of the way…” She trailed off and laughed loudly. “What am I talking about? Only an idiot would pick on a guy that could knock someone out with one punch.”

Clint shot Natasha a look that was clearly asking for help, but Natasha just unhelpfully added, “She has a point, you know.”

“See?” Tracy laughed. “Even your…friend, thinks we should go.”

“Yeah, Clint, why don’t you two go? You can just meet me at Everard’s later.”

This time the look Clint shot her was more “fuck you” than “please help,” but Natasha just sipped her soda and kept smiling.

“See? You and I should totally hit up the harbor!” As Tracy spoke, she leaned forward in enthusiasm, putting her face ridiculously close to Clint’s.

This time, instead of leaning back to retrieve his personal space, he turned his head to the side and licked Tracy’s eyebrow. Tracy quickly drew back in understandable confusion, while Natasha choked on her soda.

“What the fuck was that?” Tracy exclaimed.

“Yeah, Clint,” Natasha chastised. “You don’t know where her face has been. What’s the rule about licking?”

Clint hung his head in mock shame and said, “Don’t lick people’s faces or hands without permission and antiseptic.”

“That’s right,” Natasha continued, as Tracy drew back even further.

“What about her shoulder?” Clint asked, leaning toward the girl.

“Y’all are fucking psycho,” Tracy spat out, standing up quickly enough that her chair almost fell over backwards.

As she stalked away, Natasha leaned over the table toward Clint, finally letting herself laugh.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Well, it worked didn’t it?” Clint pouted. “She went away and that was kind of the goal.”

“Sure yeah, if the goal was also to get us thrown out of a shopping mall. It might be time to relocate. You ready to head out?”

“Very much.”

***

Several hours later, Natasha was browsing through the dresses at Muléh. Clint had followed her around for a while, but his tank top was getting them “looks.” The only reason he hadn’t been thrown out was that he was clearly tagging along with Natasha, and she was clearly there to spend money.

In the end, Clint had gotten bored and told her he was going to take a walk around, maybe grab coffee, and meet her back in a few hours. Which made the fact that someone was approaching her from behind unexpected.

She turned to the side before whoever it was could actually reach her, and gave the man a quick look up and down. His clothing was appropriate for the store, and he wasn’t an employee. He was clearly approaching her with intent, and when she turned and met his eye, he didn’t seem thrown. So, not trying to sneak up on her.

“Apologies if I startled you,” the man smiled. “But I’m waiting for my sister to come out of the dressing room and, since it could be several hours, I was hoping I could stand next to you for a while. When I got dragged here, I wasn’t aware that they didn’t have men’s clothes, and I’m feeling a little out of place. I’m getting stared at.”

Natasha doubted he was getting stared at, since it was hardly unheard of for men to be in the store, but the bright blue of his eyes caught her gaze and the two of them looked at each other for a little too long. By the time she got her thoughts back, the socially acceptable time for a response had passed.

“Or not,” the man said slowly.

Natasha cursed at herself, unsure what had even happened. It wasn’t like her be distracted by physical appearance, and the fact that she had was leaving an oily feeling across her skin. As though she needed to be scrubbed clean. If she’d faltered like that back before SHIELD…

She pushed the thought away and forced herself to smile.

“I’m so sorry,” she simpered. “I just thought I knew you for a moment, and I was trying to place you.”

“Oh?” the man answered. “Have we met?” He had shifted his position back into ‘interested,’ and Natasha decided to play the conversation out, if only to prove to herself that she could do it without tripping up again.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “My loss.”

The man’s smile widened at that, and he predictably responded, “Oh no, the loss is mine I’m sure.”

Natasha was struck by the impression that this wasn’t really a conversation, but a superfluous interaction. Like something you’d find in a textbook on how to be normal. She tried to come up with something more interesting to say but only managed, “So how did your sister manage to drag you out here?”

“Oh, you know. The same way she ever gets me to do anything.”

The feeling of insincerity deepened, and Natasha wished Clint was there. Something about the interaction was off, and she suddenly wondered at the man’s intentions. Was she picking up something untoward from him?

As if manifesting from her wish, Clint suddenly pushed his way through the door, Backhouse coffee cup in hand. He paused in the entryway, when an employee glared at him, and threw the cup in the trash. He then began scanning the room for Natasha. She gave him a little wave and turned her attention back to the stranger.

“I didn’t catch your name?” she said.

The man glanced back over his shoulder, saw Clint making his way over to them, and gave Natasha a wry smile.

“You’re about to learn it, I fear.”

Natasha had just enough time to be confused before Clint got close enough to identify them by more than clothing and hair.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” he shouted, picking up his pace, not caring that everyone in the store turned to look.

Natasha moved quickly at the outburst, taking the man by the wrist and twisting it around and up to try and get him in a lock. The man, however, moved just as quickly, and managed to take a few steps to the side, forcing Natasha to adjust her grip on his arm. In the few moments that her clasp was weakened, he wrenched his arm free and stepped out of reach.

Natasha kicked off her heels and readjusted her footing. He wouldn’t be getting out of her attack more than once.

“Nat, stop,” Clint ordered, and she stuttered to a halt as Clint came up beside her. “I asked you what the fuck you were doing here, Barney.”

At the name, Natasha gave the man another glance. At least that explained her preoccupation with the piercing blue eyes. Ran in the family apparently.

“I’m just getting to know your friend,” Barney laughed. He’d put up his hands up in a placating position. It didn’t do anything to alleviated Natasha’s desire to break something. Like his leg.

Clint apparently shared the sentiment, and his fists were clenched hard enough that they were shaking.

“Clint,” Natasha murmured in his ear. “Let’s take it outside. We’re going to get security called on us, and I doubt they’ll take your side. Not with you dressed like that.”

He didn’t respond, but he did let her direct him through the store and out onto the sidewalk. When she stopped pushing, however, he just kept walking, trying to distance himself. Natasha hurried to catch up, holding her heels in her hand in case the situation did degenerate into fight.

“Clinton,” Barney called from behind, and Clint physically shuddered.

Natasha rounded on Barney and took him by the collar with her free hand. “Do not call him that. That name does not pass your lips. I don’t care if it was fine before, because it is now off limits. Don’t think it. Don’t mention it. Don’t associate it with him. Do not ask why. Do not delve further.”

“Intense, much?” Barney tried to keep his tone light, but his eyes were fully dilated with adrenaline, even in the bright sunlight on the street.

“When the situation calls for it,” she snapped back, letting go of his shirt. He smoothed it down with both hands, and then approached the now-stationary Clint, still keeping a wary eye on Natasha.

“Hey, baby brother,” he tried again. “Haven’t heard from you since New Mexico.”

“Yeah, can’t think why that would be,” Clint muttered, rubbing his face with his hand.

“Ok, ok,” Barney placated. “That’s fair enough. I did not handle that well. I really didn’t. I got kinda freaked when you fell like that, and I didn’t know what to do. Figured your big fancy organization had tabs on you and shit. Figured they’d take care of you, and look? Huh? I was right. All patched up.”

“What do you want, Barney?”

“I told you. I want to catch up with my little brother. Talk. Hash things out.”

Clint turned on his heel to look Barney in the eye. “Are you fast?”

“What?”                       

“Are you fast?” Clint repeated. “Can you move real quick? Is your max running speed pretty impressive?”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“Because she,” Clint pointed at Natasha, “has been very good, all things considered. She has stood very still, without breaking your neck, for the last 60 seconds, regardless of the fact that she just found out that _you’re_ the one who left me for dead on the pavement in New Mexico.”

“I told you I got freaked--”

“ _And she_ ,” Clint continued, raising his voice. “She is pretty fast herself. So here’s the deal. I want you at least a mile away from me. An entire mile, down to the last foot.”

“Clint--”

“And in 20 seconds, I’m going to give her the go ahead to do whatever the fuck she wants to you, unless you’re at least a mile away from me. That’s not much of a head start. I suggest you utilize the fire escape behind the boutiques.”

Barney let himself think about the situation for a whole second before he took off for the fire escape.

“Am I allowed to climb the building, too?” Natasha asked.

“Nope,” Clint answered. “Only 10% of me wants him dead right now, and I figure that this way there’s only about a 10% chance of you catching him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t kill him. Not right away.”

“See, this is why you’re so much fun at parties.”

Natasha laughed, but it wasn’t the warm sound that Clint had gotten used to hearing. Instead, it sent a shiver up his spine, and he had to fight the urge to take a step away from her.

“Hey, Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“Hold my shoes?” She swung her arm out with the black heels dangling from her fingertips, keeping her eyes locked on the corner Barney had disappeared around.

“Sure, baby. I got your shoes.”

***

“I was _this_ close,” Natasha ranted. “I could practically feel the fabric of his shirt on my fingertips when we hit the mile mark.”

“Just his shirt?” Clint laughed. “Wasn’t he wearing a suit jacket?”

“Oh he ditched that a quarter-mile in. Smart move, since it ended up being that close. It probably saved his worthless life.”

The two of them had lied their way up into the penthouse of one of the nicer hotels in the city, and settled themselves out on the balcony. Natasha was wrapped in a fleece blanket from the room, to ward against the cooling night, and was snuggled in against Clint who had his arm around her.

“Ok, see, I’m not quite as mad at him as I was a few hours ago. I’m glad you didn’t catch him now.”

Natasha twisted around so she could be face-to-face with Clint. “You know, your brother is really very fast. ”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised. _I_ can almost beat you in a race. It’s a family trait, I guess.”

Natasha paused for a second and then turned back to look out at the sunset with a flounce and what could only be described as a pout.

“I almost _had_ him,” she repeated. “If you had let me climb the building--”

“Then I would truly be without family,” Clint murmured in her ear.

Natasha fell silent for a while, after that, until she quietly asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Ok.”

“Natasha?” he asked. “You know I love you, right?”

He half expected her to flinch beneath him, but instead she echoed, “I love you, too.” Then, after a pause, “how much do you love me?”

“I love you my as if you were my ability to draw a bow.” He pulled her closer to him so he could whisper. “I love you as if you were my freedom above ground and the feeling of a thunderstorm in the dark.”

“That sounds like a lot.”

“It should, because it is. So then, how much do you love me?”

“I love you like my strength. And my submission. I love you as I love my identity and my name.”

“Yeah? Well, I love you as my ability to not grow up to be my father. Or my brother.”

Natasha sat up so they could maneuver themselves face-to-face. She threw the blanket over them both so they could get even closer to each other.

“I love you like my mind,” she countered. “I love you with all the words in all the languages all put together until there are no more variations. Until there is no more understanding left for man to fathom, because it has all been wrapped up and embodied in my love.”

“You think you’re so smart?” Clint tried to laugh, but there were tears in his eyes, and he dashed them away with one hand and clutched at her skin with the other. “You think you’re going to win with all your fancy words? Well, I love you like I love pizza. All the pizza in the whole fucking world. Ever.”

“Pizza?” she laughed. “I love you as much as handmade guns that fit perfectly in your palm because they were always meant for you. I love you like the feeling in your stomach when you take a cold drink of water after you haven’t eaten anything in a long time.”

“I love you like I love strange cats that come up and sniff your hand when you call them. Oh! And babies who stop crying when their parents hand them to you in despair.”

“What parents out there ever handed you their crying child?” Natasha challenged.

“I was raised in a circus, Nat. There’s no accounting for what people will do when the cool acrobat with the tight uniform walks by.”

“Tight uniform, huh?”

“The tightest.”

A few hours later, they had to escape mostly naked down the side of the building when the hotel management figured out they’d been manipulated, and burst through the door with security.

***

Four days later Natasha got a phone call from Pepper. When the phone rang, she was stretched out in a suspended oversplit, with her front foot on the desk and the back one on the chair. Glancing at the caller ID, she answered and pinned the phone between her cheek and shoulder.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Natasha. It’s Pepper. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time. Although, I supposed a bad time for you would mean you couldn’t really answer your phone.”

“Usually.”

“Anyway, I was just thinking this morning that you and I haven’t talked in a while.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I just haven’t seen you in forever.”

“You saw me four months ago when Tony hired me to be backup security at that gala you threw. The one with the endangered…something.”

“You were security at that gala? Tony didn’t tell me that.”

“Then why did you think I was hanging around in your ceiling? Clint was there, too. He likes ceilings.”

“Natasha, I had no idea you two where there. I certainly didn’t see you climbing around in my ceiling.”

“Huh,” Natasha said, as she bent her body down to lie parallel with her front leg. She watched herself flex and point her toe as her heel rubbed back and forth against the surface of the desk. It kind of hurt, but she couldn’t seem to make herself stop as she waited through the increasingly awkward silence on the line.

“So,” Pepper finally said. “You’ve apparently seen _me_ , but I still haven’t seen you in a long time. Or, at least, we haven’t talked in a long time.”

“Not since you found me on your kitchen floor, no.”

“Ok, so we should catch up. I actually have Darcy coming over next Saturday. Tony’s going to be out of town, so you should come join us. We’ll have girl time. Pass the Bechdel test. Take over a small country. Whatever strikes our fancy.”

“Clint says I’m not allowed to interfere with sociopolitical regimes without prior SHIELD permission.”

“Oh god. No. No, I didn’t mean—look I just meant we should all get together and maybe watch a movie and eat too much popcorn.”

“Oh.”

“So are you going to be in—um—the country? I guess that’s the right question? Or available? Are you going to be available?”

“I don’t have anything scheduled for that Saturday that can’t be rearranged.”

“Natasha. You have to help me out here. I’m not sure if you don’t want to come, and you don’t know how to say it, or if you do want to come, and you don’t know how to say it. Or maybe you’re still not sure what I’m asking, and don’t know how to say it. Because you clearly don’t know how to say something, and I’m running out of communication tactics here.”

Natasha leaned over and put her hands on the ground, shifted her weight onto them, and folded herself up on the floor in sitting position.

“I want to be there,” she said. “And I’m available.”

“Ok, so Saturday, around 4. 4 _pm_ , in case that wasn’t clear.”

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

“All right. See you then.”

After the Pepper had hung up, Natasha took the phone back into her hand and stared at the screen. It was obscured with sweat and cells from her skin and made it want to wipe it off on her pants, but she just kept staring.

“What the fuck have I just done?” she said, to no one in particular.

***

And of course Clint actually made her go. Even though it would have been incredibly easy to make up a fake emergency, he’d dropped her off at Stark’s mansion with a sassy wave and a “have fun.”

“And what are you planning to do without me that has you so chipper?” Natasha asked, leaning down to talk to Clint through the open car window.

“I’m going to have some girl time of my own with Kaylie,” Clint answered. “She and I are due for some one-on-one.”

“Oh that is _so_ not fair,” Natasha began, but was forced to either stop there or to pathetically shout down the street.

After Clint’s car had disappeared from sight, she turned back to the mansion. She was tempted to just break in again and hide under the kitchen table, but then she supposed that might start lines of questioning she wasn’t in the mood for.

“I’ve never even met Darcy,” she informed the empty lawn.

No one answered, so she shook the feeling off, strode up to the door, and rang the bell.

When Pepper answered the door, Natasha was a little thrown, having expected a butler or something, but she still managed to smile amicably enough. She lost the smile, however, when a bouncy dark-haired girl appeared suddenly behind Pepper’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Pepper realized. “Natasha, this is Darcy. Darcy, Natasha.”

“Nice to meet you,” Darcy announced. “I hear you’re pretty handy to have around in a pinch.”

“I have an eclectic skill set,” Natasha agreed cautiously.

“That’s great, because there’s this woman I work with, who could really use some full-time management, if you know what I mean. So if you ever don’t want to work for SHIELD--”

“Darcy,” Pepper scolded.

“Oh, sorry. Uh, if you ever don’t want to work for that super-secret organization that I know nothing about at all, then you should give me a call.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha broke into the conversation. “But was I brought here for…an employment pitch?”

“No, of course not,” Pepper said, motioning Natasha to come into the house. “Darcy was just making a suggestion. She makes a lot of those.”

Figuring it was all past the point of no return, Natasha obliged the situation by entering the house. She gave the front hall a quick glance, since she’d missed it completely her last time through the house, and eventually settled her attention back on Pepper and Darcy.

“You two are friends?” she asked, and the incredulity made Darcy laugh loudly.

“Sure we’re friends. I mean, you’re right that we’re pretty different, but we’ve both had a lot of experience force-feeding obsessed scientists. Plus, Peps knows all the good clubs. The ones where kissing other girls gets you free drinks.”

Natasha raised one eyebrow at Pepper who quickly explained, “I did a lot of hunting for Tony, back in the day. A cursory knowledge of the less savory side of New York was quite the time saver.”

“Well, yeah,” Darcy said. “It’s not like Pepper needs to go out and find bars like that or anything. She could probably buy an entire club, land and all, and Tony would never notice the money had gone missing.”

“Well, I do keep the books.”

Natasha found herself just turning her head from one to the other as the two women bounced their dialogue back and forth.

“If Tony ever pisses you off enough, we should just starting buying more and more expensive stuff until he notices. I bet we get up to a small country before he does.”

“I’m not allowed,” Natasha interrupted. “I can’t interfere with sociopolitical climates without prior SHIELD permission. Or was that another joke?”

“Oh, no,” Darcy rushed to assure her. “I was completely serious.” She clapped suddenly, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. “Oh, we’re going to have so much fun tonight!”

***

Meanwhile, across the city, Clint had let himself into the apartment Kaylie was using while she was in New York.

It was several hours before the key jiggled in the lock, and Kaylie walked in. She managed to get her shoes off before she noticed Clint. When she did, she gasped sharply and plunged a hand into her purse, presumably digging around for a gun.

“Kaylie, relax. It’s just me.”

“What is _with_ you two? Is this how you guys entertain yourselves? Break into people’s sleeping quarters and give them heart attacks?”

“Well,” Clint grinned. “I’m not saying watching your face wasn’t fun.”

“What do you want, Barton.” Kaylie set her keys on the counter and made her way over to the large green couch that Clint was sitting on the arm of. She curled herself up in one of the seats and looked up expectantly.

“I wanted to ask your opinion about something.”

“And clearly a phone call was out of the question. So, what’s the ‘something?’ ”

“Do you think that Nat and I are doing well?”

Kaylie took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through her mouth. “Oh, Clint, honey. I’m not a relationship expert.”

“Bullshit. You were literally a professional. People paid you because you knew what you were doing.”

She frowned, but didn’t offer to correct him. “Fine. But I’m not a relationship counselor.” She sighed again, letting her breath out even more slowly. “I guess I could see if I have any advice. How about you start by describing your relationship with her, in ten words or less.”

Clint thought about it for a moment and then said, “My darker desires are leaving their taste on my tongue.”

“Poetic, cryptic, and mildly useless. Unless you’re saying that you consider what you two do together to be ‘dark’ and unacceptable.”

“No. It’s not that. It’s more, I feel like we’re tempting darkness into our lives by playing it so close.”

“Darkness is already in your lives. You’re walking a thin line, dipping your toes into it, because that darkness is never going to stay where it belongs, behind closed doors. If you don’t learn how to control it in small doses, then you’re never going to be able to handle the rushing floods when the dams break.”

“You don’t think they’ve already broken? She’s tried to starve herself and hurt herself and god knows what else. She’s had flashbacks so deep she can’t remember _any_ of her names, much less the one that means her. You really think the dam hasn’t broken?”

“If we’re being honest, no. I don’t think it has.”

“She’s doing _great_ , Kaylie. She’s taking control and making her own decisions. I know there was that fuck up with the damn honeypot mission, but we’ve always been playing this by trial and error. There was bound to be some ‘error’ in there somewhere.”

“If you’re so sure about this, then why did you come to me? You drove to New York. Why? So Natasha wouldn’t have to take a plane? No. You came here to see me. Whatever this is, it’s bothering you enough that you came up to see me in person. Without calling first, I might add.”

“Will you let that go?”

“If you tell me why you came to see me.”

“Because I’m scared it’s all pasted on,” Clint shouted. “Because I’m scared that this is just her biggest longest con ever, and she has me so figured out that she’s created this persona that I would lust after.”

Kaylie considered Clint for a long time, the both of them sitting together in the low lighting. The room was quiet, despite its small size, and even the sounds of the pipes in the walls did little to alleviate the oppressive silence.

“Where is this coming from, Clint? I know I still have my concerns, but I did agree with your earlier premise. Whether or not she’s completely healed, she’s nonetheless getting better. Why do you think it’s a lie?”

“Because she loves me,” Clint spat out. “Isn’t that enough? No one loves me, so her saying she loves me is just one fucking giant glitch in the matrix. The cherry-on-top clue that it’s all fucked to hell.”

He buried his face in his knees, recoiling from Kaylie’s touch when she tried to put her hand on his knees.

“Clint,” she soothed. “Do you really believe that? Do you believe that completely?”

“No,” he mumbled down into his knees. “Not all the time. Most of the time I’m fine. But sometimes I can think about it straight.”

“Not to sound like a broken record, but I’m not sure what you’re doing here. These are things you need to tell Natasha.”

“How can I? How can I tell her that all her beautiful words weren’t enough. They were perfect and exactly right and so beautiful, and I’m just too fucked up to believe them.”

“Barton!” Kaylie snapped. “Don’t you dare do her that disservice.”

Her sharp tone startled him up from his knees, and he met her eyes, even as he wiped at his face.

“I don’t understand what you—”

“She spent her entire life being told that she was loved. That snake of a man tried to kill her soul with his words and his hatred. She was told for over a decade that the abuse she suffered was love, and then she was forced to shed that understanding of the word. Do you really think that didn’t damage her trust in the word ‘love?’ That she doesn’t wonder if you love her?”

“If she does, then that’s ok. She’s earned the right to be broken, with what she went through. I haven’t.”

“I’m tempted to fucking slap you right now, Barton. You are not the all-knowing all-seeing god of this world. You do not get to make these decisions. It is not yours to say who ‘deserves’ to be broken. _You_ said that you couldn’t tell her what you were thinking because you were scared she wouldn’t understand. I tell you she will understand, and you say it doesn’t matter because you don’t deserve to feel this, whether she understand or not. Well, now I’m telling you that you deserve to feel whatever you’re feeling, all the time no matter what. You’re out of evasions.”

“But—”

“No buts. Now, are you picking Natasha up in the morning?”

“No, Pepper is flying her out. I was just going to drive back to D.C. and wait for her there.”

“Then here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to spend the night here. You’re going to drink plenty of water, get a good night’s sleep, and eat a big breakfast. I will make you feel loved even if I have to drown you in hot chocolate. Then, you’re going to drive to D.C. and think about what you’re going to say to Natasha when she gets there. Because I wasn’t kidding before. You two are walking a very thin line across a very deep canyon. You’re not going to make it if each of you doesn’t know exactly where the other is at all times.”

“If you say so,” Clint gave in. His shoulders sagged in acceptance, and he slid down to sit on the actual cushion of the couch, rather than the arm. “What did you mean about that darkness, though?”

Kaylie sighed as she got up to try and find extra bedding somewhere in the apartment. “It’s nothing that you can do anything about. I’m just concerned that there are some tangles still left in her mind. I know I don’t spend a lot of time in the field, but I’ve been around enough to know when something is wrong.”

“So what are you saying? You think she’s still got trigger phrases and stuff inside of her?”

Kaylie turned and leaned against the hallway door frame. “I’m saying that Nat is very talented, and she must have been a huge financial investment. Honestly, I very much doubt that her makers have forgotten about her. I think that, one day, they’re going to show up on your doorstep.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random bonus points (which cannot be used to purchase anything at all) to anyone who catches the Stargate SG-1 trope.

Natasha had perched herself on the edge of the couch and planted one foot firmly on the floor while the other was folded up underneath her. She wasn’t sure what threat there might be in the room, but she was ready for whatever it would be when it came.

In the meantime, she was staring at the carpet. Clint’s apartment had hardwood floors and the SHIELD bases tended to be made of concrete. The carpet was different; somehow both soft and loud. She could feel it give and hear it scratch. She let her eyes wander along it, barely listening to the conversation bubbling between Darcy and Pepper.

Somehow, through the hazy filter, she caught Darcy saying, “Let’s watch a movie or something?” It came out a question more than not.

Natasha rushed to agree with the suggestion. Unbiased noise to fill the empty silence would be welcome. However, when she stood up, Darcy gasped loudly, and Natasha spun around at ready position.

“Calm down the superspeed. I just noticed that your shoes are Jimmy Choo! You’re wearing Jimmy Choo. Pepper, she’s wearing Jimmy Choo. This is so not fair. I thought that hanging out in the Stark glory was bad enough but don’t _you_ get paid a military salary or something? Or do you get a superbonus?”

“I didn’t buy them,” Natasha interrupted, glancing down at the crystal and suede pumps. “They were a gift.”

“Who from and can you introduce us?!”

Natasha shrugged. “Unlikely. I got them from a mark when I was in Saudi Arabia and SHIELD let me keep them. You like them that much?”

“They’re Jimmy Choo. _Everyone_ likes them.”

“Here.” Natasha kicked them off. “They’re yours.”

“Natasha! I _can’t_!”

“Of course you can. You just got more enjoyment looking at them then I ever have wearing them. You’ve earned them.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Darcy laughed. “I’d grab them in a heartbeat and scream ‘no take backs,’ but I literally can’t. I can’t walk in heels. They’d be lost on me.” She sighed heavily, exaggerated and over-weary.

“You can’t walk in heels?”

Darcy flashed a cheeky grin that was somehow reminiscent of Clint, and confirmed, “That’s right, ma’am. I can’t take four steps without cracking my head open on something.”

“Anyone who can walk across the floor in a straight line can walk in heels,” Natasha protested.

“Ok then, hotshot,” Darcy exclaimed as she jumped to her feet. “You want to see the walking ER case? Hand ‘em over!”

Darcy had to sit back down on the couch in order to get the shoes on her feet and, once she had, she was quick to reconsider her blasé attitude.

“I don’t think--”

Natasha took her by one arm, Pepper took her by the other, and they both pulled. As her weight shifted, Darcy had no choice but to comply. Once she was firmly vertical, however, she just hung there, keeping her weight on Pepper and Natasha.

“Your arms are going to give out soon,” Natasha reminded her.

“I’m gonna fall!”

“Darcy. There are some skills sets I have that I can’t even talk about. To literally mention them would get me blacklisted. I am extremely capable. Trust me. If you fall, then I will catch you.”

And Natasha did catch her. The first time.

The second time, Darcy had a disagreement with the laws of physics. Natasha would later swear that teleportation was involved. Pepper would concur.

“You should probably take these back,” Darcy muttered from the floor. She hooked her fingers in the backs of the shoes and offered them up.

“No. Keep them. Maybe one day you’ll pick up the skill. For now, if someone ever comes over that you want to impress, drop them in the middle of your floor like you kicked them off while watching television. Then you can be all, ‘oh, did I leave these _here_?’ ”

“Darcy, you should put your ability to fall like that on your resume,” Pepper said. “Seriously, there can’t be many people who can pull that off.”

“Oh, I have many skills.”

“Really? Are they going to make an appearance?” Natasha realized, a little too late, that she’d asked the question without any intonation, and might have sounded unintentionally snide.

Darcy, fortunately, just laughed and said, “I’ll have you know I play a mean piano.”

Pepper interjected at that. “I didn’t know you played piano.”

“Pretty good, too, if I do say so myself.”

And the night started to flow from there. Darcy was forced to give a performance, and then Pepper gave a go. They tried to get Natasha to sit, but she refused politely and firmly. After the piano there was a movie with far too much popcorn.

Besides the heels-to-piano incident, nothing else really happened that night. The three women talked together pleasantly enough. Natasha managed to make them both laugh and she didn’t frighten either of them. She even found she enjoyed the night.

By the end of it, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream because she was suffocating or because she just didn’t know how to be happy.

***

When Natasha arrived back in D.C. the next morning, she was still running on the hazy high from non-mandatory social interaction. She’d rented a car and taken the drive in the dead of night, meaning the lack of traffic had put travel time right at four hours.

Still, she was feeling the effects of the sleepless night, especially during the quiet car ride. Her mind wandered without permission, as she kept catching herself replaying the night’s events – looking through the memories with no particular purpose.

All those thoughts, however, were driven out of her mind when she drove up to the D.C. base. The sun was just showing over the city buildings, and she was already on edge from the weird look she’d gotten when she checked through the outer security gate. When she pulled up to the inner gate to get into the parking lot, the security officer looked at her ID and then shook her head.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she informed Natasha. “But the whole base is on lockdown. You should have gotten a text, but either way, no one’s going in or out until they get it all sorted.”

Natasha caught herself before she lost control and started digging around for her phone right then and there. Instead, she forced herself to paste on a mildly concerned expression, thank the guard, and then back out of the gate.

She drove a few blocks down, located a parking garage, took a deep breath, and fished her phone out from the floor of the car. The icon on the screen informed her that she had a single message.

One message.

It made her pause, because if the base were in lockdown, Clint should have texted her. He would have known she had gotten the DC alert, and he would have made sure she knew he was all right.

A single message meant that Clint couldn’t get to his phone. At the very least, it meant communication within SHIELD had been shut down by something that they didn’t want to risk getting free.

At the worst, Clint had bled out on the concrete floor last night while she was listening to Pepper and Darcy debate about which movie to watch.

Natasha pulled the glove compartment open to snag the handgun out of it, and then grab a matching handgun of out of the pocket in back of the passenger seat. As she stepped out of the car, she shoved one in the shoulder holster she’d almost forgone wearing that day.

With the other gun clasped carefully within her hand, so as to avoid attention, she abandoned the car in the garage and headed for the back stairwell. When Clint had first brought her to the SHIELD base, she’d put a lot of effort into finding a possible way out. Now she’d see if it would work as a way in, instead.

***

Getting in turned out to be less of a problem then it should have been. As in, she’d managed to get into the actual base without setting off any alarms, but then had to come to terms with the fact that SHIELD didn’t mess around with security. She had to choose between getting seen on camera and abandoning the mission altogether.

She’d taken the risk and flashed through the hallway. She’d waited for alarms or whatever, but silence had pervaded. She’d leaned her back against the cold hallway wall, and breathed heavily after her sprint.

When nothing had happened, she’d been confronted by all the possible ramifications. If nothing had noticed her entrance, then no one was watching the security systems. She forced herself to imagine coming around the next corner and stepping into a hallway strewn with bodies. Bodies of people Clint knew.

Bodies she knew.

She forced herself off the wall and kept walking. This time she ignored the security systems and marched straight toward the center of the base. It wasn’t until she’d dropped down through an emergency exit onto a lower floor that she first began to realize what had happened.

Because when she dropped down onto the floor, it wasn’t hard concrete. Instead, it was soft and…leafy?

In the dark, she ran her hands over whatever she had landed on and found large leaves connected by ropy vines. They were impossibly large and felt like plastic. Like costume plants that little kids with normal childhoods twisted up in their hair as they declared themselves royalty of fairy worlds.

She struggled to her feet, nearly rolling her ankle several times as she dug around for flat ground to put her foot on. When she finally managed to shove her way down through the thick vines, she got to her feet and considered the situation.

_What. The Fuck??_

She began to shuffle her way down the hallway, keeping one hand on the wall, making sure she didn’t miss a turn off or rotate her course. Eventually, as she stumbled along, the pitch black darkness began to lighten. Slowly, everything took on a slightly greenish hue and she finally managed to confirm that a giant plant was snaking its way through the hallways of SHIELD.

“There’s no sunlight down here,” she informed it, out loud. “What are you doing?”

For a brief moment, she thought the plant had actually answered her, but it was just the echo of voices somewhere in the base. She breathed deeply in relief, unaware till that moment how hard she had been working to stave off the image of Clint being slowly absorbed in a giant Venus Flytrap. _Someone_ was still alive down here.

She continued shuffling her way down the hall, finding her foot placements more and more easily as the lighting grew. She was still being careful, not wanting to draw too much attention to her entry, but she was eager to see Clint. The hours away – without being on a mission – had taken their toll. She didn’t have the energy for too much bullshit.

She managed to get to a stairwell without being seen, but then she hesitated. Once on the stairs themselves, she wouldn’t have a lot of options. However, it was the most direct route.

The sound of voices behind her prompted her forward. She paused to bend down and shove the gun in her hand into her ankle holster, and then she started her descent, two steps at a time. The tap-tap of the replacement shoes Pepper had given her made her pause and slip them off her feet. Shoes hooked in her fingers, she began picking her way down down the stairs.

Reaching the second floor, she got her first shock as she found it propped open. Glancing at the lock mechanism, she noticed it was dark. So the whole base was on emergency power. As in, the very basics. Only top floor security was working at all. Which meant the cameras and ID cards weren’t registering.

So there was no way to tell who was and was not supposed to be there. The lockdown was completely reliant on outside security. She slipped her shoes back on and tap-tapped her way down the flights. A few minutes later, she ran into a small group and waved with practiced casualness. She got a couple salutes and a couple waves and everyone continued on their way.

It gave her the courage to be more interactive with her next encounter. It was a young man who Natasha knew only from snooping through SHIELD files.

“Hey, any progress on communications?” she asked.

The man shrugged. “They’re not telling me anything.”

“Yeah, me neither. Frustrating as fuck. You haven’t seen Agent Barton in the last hour or so, have you?”

“The Hawk? Yeah, he’s down with the primary group. He’s getting pretty antsy, from what I hear.”

Nat struggled between gratitude for the information and anger at the nosy commentary. Clearly he didn’t recognize her. In the end, she settled for a wry smile and asking, “The primary group didn’t change location since this morning or anything, right?”

“Nah, they’re still set up in the 2nd level conference room.”

Nat took off without further communication.

***

Clint was, in fact, getting antsy. He kept checking his phone to see if communications had been restored. The image of Natasha somewhere outside the base was impossible to get out of his head. No matter how long it had been he would always remember what it felt like to have her knife digging into his leg. What it looked like when she moved like light around the pillars as she stalked his men.

The image blurred into his current imagination, and he had to physically shake his head from imagining her on a rampage up above. Dead civilians in the street. All their hard work over the last year and a half undone in a few moments that passed so quickly that most people would never even know they'd been slaughtered before their minds stopped working altogether.

He checked his phone again.

"I'll tell you the moment communications are up, Barton," Coulson told him softly.

"I know. I believe you. And it's not going to stop me."

"Not going to stop you what?" Clint's head snapped up from where he was clicking his phone on and off, and he searched frantically for the voice. When he found Natasha standing casually next to him, he fumbled for reality, trying to reconcile the last hours of baseline terror with the languid position of the woman suddenly leaning on the wall next to him.

His second thought was for Coulson, whom he glanced at with apprehension.

Coulson put his hands up and said, "She's more your agent than mine. I assume you'll deal with it."

Clint watched as the older agent ambled away and then returned his attention to Natasha.

"Where the hell did you come from?" He was trying to put anger into his voice, but he couldn't help reaching out to run his fingers over her sleeve, grounding himself in reality rather than his fearful fantasies.

She watched his fingers wrap in the fabric, only changing her gaze up to his face when he leaned in closer to her.

"I need to fuck you up against a wall," he whispered.

"Fortunately," she answered, "I hear the cameras are down."

Clint gave some forgettable excuse and they both withdrew from the room without drawing any attention. A few moments later, Natasha had her back against the wall in a dark corner of the overly-silent building. Clint was fumbling with his belt as he pressed harder against her. She braced herself against the thick vines trailing up and down the walls.

“What’s up with the plants?” she asked.

Clint grunted in frustration as he now tugged at her belt.

“You want to talk about the the plants?” he gasped. “ _I_ want you to shut up and help me out here. Why can’t I get this off you?”

She laughed, twisting the belt and showing him the release. “I customized it, remember? I would have thought you'd have made it a priority to learn how it works now."

Clint didn’t respond, clawing at her clothes until everything was pushed down to her thighs. She tried to spread her legs wider, but the folded fabric dug into her skin. The two of them struggled in tandem, and Natasha was finally able to kick the clothing away and jump up to wrap her legs around Clint’s waist.

Clint didn’t waste any time, burying himself deep, quickly enough that Natasha breathed in sharply at the sudden pressure and quick pace.

“Sorry,” Clint murmured, forcing himself to slow and still.

Natasha responded by using the little leverage she had while pinned to the wall and rocking her hips forward. “ _Move_ ,” she ordered.

The whole thing was short and messy and Clint came more quickly than he had in a long time. Afterward, he just moved in closer to Natasha, with her legs still up and wrapped around his waist. He held her tightly and shivered.

“What happened?” Natasha asked, slightly bewildered at the vulnerability.

“I don’t like small spaces underground. They make me think dark things. Especially when I don’t know where you are.”

He didn’t elaborate further, but he didn’t need to.

Eventually, he drew back, pulling himself out, and looked her in the eye. “I know you were told at the gate that you weren’t allowed in. They weren’t sure if the plant thing – biology experiment gone wrong, by the way – was going to get out into the environment or not. Could have been an ecological disaster. And _you_ just decide to waltz right through it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah? You don’t seem too sorry.”

“Not yet,” she finished for him. She’d been itching for this. Frantic quickies in dark corners was one thing, but she needed more than the friction of a rough entry.

“Not yet,” he echoed back.

***

            It ended up being a while before Clint could make good on his promise. The plant had to be neutralized first. Fortunately, the problem had practically been solved by the time Natasha had arrived. While the plant had been resistant to fire and pesticides and most other attempts, low levels of gamma radiation had withered it almost completely.

When she heard they were going to be radiating the base, Natasha had a brief flashback to a file she’d read about a mild-tempered doctor who had a gamma radiation exposure go terribly wrong. She was fairly certain the man was hiding out in India. Not that anyone had asked her. And not that she was going to volunteer the information until someone did.

All of which meant that it took quite a bit of reassuring, on the part of the scientists, before Natasha agreed to the plan. She finally conceded when Clint quietly reminded her that it was her own fault she was there in the first place.

Fortunately, no large scale mutations occurred, and the plant finally weakened enough that fire and machetes became effective. It wasn’t long after that till normal functions had been returned enough that Clint and Natasha could slip away without being called back or otherwise interrupted.

As soon as Clint turned around from closing the door, Natasha was on her knees. She shuffled forward and wrapped her arms around his legs, burying her face in his thighs. Clint let her stay there for a moment, feeling the slow in-and-out of her breathing.

Then he shook her off, and she trembled.

“What if it had been a virus?” he snapped at her. “What if it had been an enemy that we couldn’t risk getting out? What if it had been any of a thousand things that SHIELD exists to prevent?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Get on your knees in front of the bed,” he ordered, watching as she scrambled to obey. He let her sit there a moment, and then walked up behind her, letting his presence be a weight behind her field of vision. Then he put his hand on the back of her neck and pushed her slowly down to bend over the bed.

“Lose these,” he ordered, snapping the waistband of her pants. She shucked herself out of them carefully, struggling to maintain her balance over the bed. Staring down at her ass, Clint has a sudden flashback to the first time he’d punished her.

Black regulation underwear and a worn leather belt. Blood across his pant legs. Back when he hadn’t known how careful he needed to be with her.

He slide her own belt out of its loops from the garment pooling at her knees. With his free hand, he slid his palm slowly over her hips and the curves of her body. All the way down till he could hook his fingers in her underwear and slide them down as well.

“You think you’re awfully clever, don’t you,” Clint taunted. “Deciding that you know better than everyone else. Coming down here because you think you’ve _earned_ it.” He swung the belt without any warm up, cracking it down across her skin. He watched the red mark bloom in a stripe across both cheeks. She didn’t bruise worth shit, but the red color was something to behold.

“Sorry, sir,” she murmured.

“Let’s see if your head can keep up with this game. I want you to keep count, backwards from 99, skipping by threes, in a different language with each number.”

It made the entire game mostly bluff. If she lost track or repeated a language, she’d know it before he did.

“Yes, sir.”

Clint didn’t give her much time after that, delivering the next 10 strokes in rapid succession, enjoying the lilting litany. The rush of air, a crack, the calm number in one of the many cadences that Natasha could draw to her lips. The rush of air again.

Clint smiled in amusement when he heard “šedesát,” since Czech was one of the languages he knew. She might have picked up on the minuscule reaction, too, because after that came a string of languages that Clint also spoke, and he followed her descent down through the 50s and 40s.

He paused to feel the heat off her skin, rubbing his hands up and down from her hips to her thighs, curving his fingers around to brush her clit with the barest of sensations. He could feel her spine pushing against her skin from underneath. On a whim, he kissed her there. Then again higher up. He traced the outcroppings of bone with his lips, higher and higher, pushing her shirt out of his way.

A moment later his body was flush against hers, front to back, and he was panting softly against her neck.

“Well, shit,” he laughed, and he felt her arch in matching amusement beneath him. “If I’m not careful, we’ll never get through this.”

“Your call,” she tempted, shifted her body to rub against him just so. He shoved himself off her so he was sitting on his heels.

“Fucking cheater,” he laughed, spanking her open-handed against her already burning skin. “I don’t think so. What number are you on?”

“Ventisette”

“Which is?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“I know _that_ ,” he scoffed. “I want the number that this makes in your count.”

“Nine.”

“Which means you’ve had how many?”

“Twenty-f—ung.” She inadvertently cut the number off with a grunt when Clint brought the belt back down again in the middle of her concentration.

He finished off the rest in rapid succession after that, barely pausing to give her a chance to breath. She was whimpering a little with the last few, but quietly enough that the snap of leather and flesh nearly drowned it out.

Afterward, he let the belt fall to the ground as he hurried to kneel behind her again, this time letting her push back against him.

“Forgiven?” she asked teasingly.

“Forgiven,” he answered. Then, “Nat. I think we might need to talk about something.”

“Is it why you went to talk to Kaylie?”

“Yes.”

“Then can it wait just a couple of minutes?” she asked plaintively, rubbing back against him again. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

Clint laughed. “Is there something you want from me, clever girl?”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“So ask for it nicely.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drink responsibly, people.

It wasn’t until a few days later that Clint got the courage to bring it up. They had splurged and actually purchased a suite in a nice hotel, even if they had charged it to SHIELD. They doubted anyone was going to notice.

It had been a lazy day, even if they had both kept their phones and their guns within arms’ reach. Eventually they ended up curled together on the couch. They’d dragged it over to the front of the gas fireplace, and Natasha had one bare leg stretched out across the floor so her toes curled and uncurled lazily in front of the warm flame.

She had her head on Clint’s stomach and he was running his fingers through her hair as he watched the fire dance.

“How do you know I love you?” he asked, without warning or preparation. He expected her to stiffen in reaction to the abrasive question, but she just laughed and pulled her leg back up onto the couch. She turned completely over and snuggled against his stomach and legs before she answered.

“I don’t have to,” sidestepping the question and entering into the heart of the matter.

“Just like that?” he scoffed.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Clint struggled up into sitting position, although Natasha didn’t relinquish her position with her head against his stomach. “It can’t just be that simple. After everything we went through, after everything we’ve done and had done, how is it just that simple? Don’t you wonder?”

“What would it change? I love you, wholeheartedly and without reservation. I know that I would sacrifice myself for you, and that there is no greater love than this. Worrying about reciprocation, in our particular circumstances, seems,” she shrugged. “Irrelevant.”

Clint thought about the response quietly for a while, until she finally asked, “Are you going to tell me why the question? Why now? Or am I going to have to guess?”

“I’m tempted to see what you’d guess. Give it a try.”

“You doubt I love you because you define love by who sticks around. Because I chased your brother across the rooftops on your request and you still can’t figure out what you did to make him leave.”

Clint froze, fingers half-curled in her hair and waited it out. Waited until she continued.

“There’s nothing I can say that’s going to convince you that I’ll never leave you,” she explained softly. “Just like there was nothing you could say to me to convince me of the same. All I can do is stay right here. Over time, you’ll worry less and less; a little less each day. And then one day you’ll realize that you haven’t worried about it in weeks. Or months. Maybe even years.”

“When did everything change?” Clint choked out. “When did we change?”

“I think it’s for the better, don’t you?”

“What if it’s not? Natasha I’m lying here staring at the ceiling and the fear that you’ll disappear into the autonomy of yourself—away from me—is only half of my nightmare. I can’t shed the idea that you’ve constructed yourself for my benefit. That, with my best interest at heart, you’ve consumed yourself to regurgitate my own mantras back at me.”

“If that were true,” Natasha smiled, and Clint was relieved to hear amusement in her voice, “wouldn’t I stop trying to torture people to death? Don’t flatter yourself, darling. Your gravitational pull is no longer strong enough to upset my course.”

“You’re saying you don’t change your behavior for me?”

“Oh, my _behavior_? Absolutely. My identity? No. So I wouldn’t worry about it. And before you get all self-flagellating about changing my ‘behavior’ I’ll take this moment to remind you that you’ve changed yours for me, too. You don’t spend your days underground, stalking the SHIELD halls. You don’t spend your nights in an unwinnable games of Russian roulette for ‘which nightmare will visit tonight.’ You take initiative and pursue my needs and you’re so far outside your comfort zone, you’ve lost touch with it.”

“But I did those things for me.”

“No,” she corrected gently, snuggling up closer against him. “You benefitted from those things. You did them for me. Such is love.”

***

Three weeks later, Natasha got an email from Coulson warning her that Matvei Dobrynin had finally broken, and that he’d had a lot to say. It was a soft opening to the fact that he’d mentioned her name fairly often. Or at least, he’d mentioned the Black Widow program and its end goals.

She wasn’t needed just yet, but she should expect to be contacted about the issue soon. While the Black Widow program itself hadn’t made an appearance in years, having Dobrynin bring it up so freely had put everyone on edge. Natasha most of all.

“It’s not over,” she vented to Clint. “I have to sit here, with the weight of my own impatience, until they decide that I need to be brought in.”

“Do you want to be brought in?” Clint asked calmly.

“Yes!” A pause. “No. I—I don’t want something to blindside me later. If this is something that SHIELD is going to investigate, then it’s going to happen one way or another. I want it to happen on my terms.”

“Did you know that physicians aren’t allowed to operate on their family members?”

“I see where you’re going with this.”

“You’re too close, Nat. There’s a lot of delicate work that needs to be done, and you have a tendency to be overtly single-minded. You—and I—also have tendencies to suddenly find out we have trigger words we didn’t know about. This is for the best.”

“It’s my history,” Natasha said quietly. It wasn’t an argument, but rather a lament, and Clint let it go at that.

***

“Have you ever been drunk?” Clint asked her suddenly, one night. They were sitting side by side on the couch in Clint’s apartment, each doing their own thing, when he sprung the question.

First, her mind took her to the not-so-distant past, stumbling out of a motel room with champagne pungent on her breath, but she folded the memory carefully away.

“On a few dark days,” she answered obtusely.

“Yeah, not letting you get away with that.” He closed the book he was holding, keeping one finger in his place, and readjusted his position to better face her.

She sighed and put down her own book, conceding, “It was not encouraged, during my upbringing. I was given it to taste and try, during training, so I wouldn’t be wholly new to it, but I wasn’t supposed to get drunk.”

“But you did, sometimes?” Clint prompted.

“Yes. On the missions that I wasn’t going to make it through otherwise.”

“You’d probably be something to watch when you’re drunk. What are you like? What kind of drunk do you get?”

She shrugged. “Sensual.”

Clint snorted. “Then what the fuck are you _now_?”

“Not like you’re thinking,” she laughed, and then amended, “A little like you’re thinking. Mostly, I meant that I just have a tendency to become really obsessed with how things feel. I run my fingertips over everything and savor the drag of skin with friction.”

“I wanna see it.”

Natasha hesitated. “You want to see me drunk? How drunk?”

“Wasted drunk. Completely out of control drunk.”

She seemed horrified by the idea. “Out of control drunk? I have no idea what I’ll say! Or even do. I’d probably be so demanding and petty. All the things I hold behind my tongue would just come out all the time, can you imagine?”

Clint licked his bottom lip involuntarily. “I’m imagining,” he stated. “And I’m really starting to love this idea.”

“What if I attack you or something?”

“Natasha. If I get you _that_ drunk, then you’re not even going to be able to stand. I think I’ll be able to handle you.”

Which was the lead-in to a late night liquor run, a brief debate about the pros and cons of various alcohol variations, and a few concerned glances from some passersby—probably due to the sheer size of the brown bag that Clint had wrapped in his arms upon their exit.

As for the rest of the night, once they’d gotten back to their apartment, Clint sent out a text to their current handler that they weren’t going to be super-available for a while, got a go-ahead, and settled in with first shots.

While Clint certainly didn’t keep himself anywhere near designated driver limits, he did hold back, watching Natasha switch around among different alcohols as the mood struck her.

“That’s probably not wise,” Clint laughed, pointing out her changing mood.

She made a noise with her mouth that was clearly dismissive and downed another shot. Making a face, she shook it off and said, “Is any of this really? Actually, no, is _anything_ wise, at all? Are we even capable of being wise? As humans, I mean. Not like, _us_ we.”

“Oh no, you’re an existential-crisis drunk. Great. I can barely understand that kind of thing when everyone is sober.”

“No, it’s really simple,” Natasha insisted, scooting forward and nearly falling off her chair for the trouble. “It all depends on your definition of absolute truth. And your belief in it.”

Clint gave up on listening to her words and watched her lips move.

The night peaked a couple hours later. Clint had slowed his drinking down to just enough to unbalance the world, but Natasha had already moved down to sit on the floor. Then to lie on the floor.

She babbled for a while, seeming excited when Clint would laugh at whatever she said, and then she started singing softly. That made Clint sit very still and listen quietly, even though he didn’t understand the words. The fact that the lyrics eluded him didn’t detract from the situation. He could feel the intensity of the repeating short song, its minor key dipping and rising.

When she finished, she fell silent, staring straight up at the ceiling for long enough that Clint made his way across the room to sit on the floor next to her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, causing her eyes to refocus, now fixed on him.

“Feeling? I want to feel,” she giggled. Then again, more gravely, “I want to feel something.”

A flash of alarm spread through Clint as he considered the possibility that this might turn too serious, especially with them compromised the way they were. But then Natasha reached up and put the flat of her hand full on Clint’s face.

“I want to _feel_ ,” she repeated, and then moaned long and low. “MMmmm, I want to feel you.”

He groaned involuntarily in response, and she grinned up at him.

“I want to feel your fingers in my wet folds, digging deep. Back made red by leather and rubber. Hand prints and stripes of punishment all spread across my skin.” She bucked her hips in light of the flagrant imagination. “Can’t you see it? Fingers in tight spaces until you give up and have to shove your cock in me. Your control can’t hold out against my writhing.”

“You have a filthy mouth,” Clint commented, half-surprised. He’d always suspected that thoughts like this ran wild behind her calm eyes, but she’d always kept a civil tongue in her head. Even when they were played out and empty of everything but each other. Even when she had dark thoughts or obscene requests. Somehow, she always managed to phrase everything in the more civilized terms.

Hearing this from her now? Clint was undone. He needed all his willpower just to stay still when Natasha moved her hand down from his face and started tracing along his shoulders. She sat up to get a better angle, and then had a brief moment of frustrated confusion when she couldn’t seem to figure out why she couldn’t just push his shirt off him like a jacket, but he alleviated the growing tension by shucking the garment.

Then she just sat there, on the floor with her legs splayed out around her, running her fingers up and down Clint’s chest. She moved her face so close to his skin, watching the way her own hand moved him. She breathed in and out with him, causing warm currents of her air to tease and kiss. His hair stood on end, partly because of the hot-and-cold shift in sensation against his skin and partly because he wasn’t sure how long he could stand being under that much scrutiny. Even a little of her attention could be overwhelming. This was something new altogether.

He almost compared it back to the disoriented mindfuckery of Dobrynin’s prison just a few months before, but the thought faded away before he had time to recognize it for what it was.

Then Natasha was laying open mouthed kisses to his chest. They were messy and wet and her half-hearted attempt to tongue at one of his nipples ended in more amusement than anything else. Everything degenerated as she kissed her way down his stomach, paying special attention to the scars, until she suddenly face planted in his lap.

Clint finally laughed, long and hard when she started speaking unintelligibly, her voice muffled by his crotch. He wasn’t even sure it was all English.

“Ok, love,” he said, after he’d calmed. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She tried to comply with him as he attempted to pick her up bridal style, but she only ended up making things more difficult. Still, after a few tries, he successfully got to his feet with her in his arms, realized he was a little more drunk than he’d thought, and then got them both to the bedroom.

As he plopped her down and moved to swaddle her with the covers, Natasha turned over and said, surprisingly clearly, “I love you, my lithe hunter.”

She was too far gone for it to be a lie.

***

While Natasha didn’t remember everything quite clearly in the morning, she did retain the feeling of the night. Despite her obvious nausea and probable headache, she kept smiling at Clint—like the two of them were sharing a perfect and unmentionable secret.

It was a pinnacle for the two of them to hold on to in the coming days. It wasn’t long after Natasha had started to feel her stomach settle, and she no longer wanted to jump out of her skin at every sharp noise, that they got a message from Coulson.

_If you two are on your feet again, we’ve got a message we’d like Natasha to hear. No one else can translate it, and it’s not the kind of thing we want to send off-site._

“You good?” Clint asked. Natasha nodded, and Clint shot back a reply.

They made their way down the halls, deeper into the SHIELD base, and every now and again one of them would reach out just to touch the other, whether to run their fingers down the other’s arm, or to brush away a curl of hair.

They dropped the touchy-feely when they got to their destination. The room was crawling with people who were obviously all bursting with things they thought were immensely important. As they were looking around, Coulson appeared by their side.

“Glad to see you two,” he greeted. “I’m really hoping that Natasha can give us a hand with this, because it’s a little sensitive. I do want to go ahead and warn you, though, that we did get it from the files that Dobrynin led us to. There’s a good chance that this has something to do with your childhood, Romanoff. I want to be upfront about that.”

“All the better,” Natasha responded, ignoring Clint’s look of apprehension. “I’ve been hoping that I would get a chance to prove that I can be useful to this.”

“I don’t doubt that you’d be useful,” Coulson said, as he guided them over to one of the computers. It had a video queued up, though the screen showed nothing but a black darkness. “I’m more concerned with your progress here. You’re a great asset to this establishment, Romanoff. We’d hate to lose you.”

“I don’t see what pursuing my own backstory would do.” She slipped on the headphones that Coulson held out to her. “I have things here I won’t leave behind.”

“I’m not concerned that you’d abandon Barton,” Coulson informed her, glanced back to make eye contact with the archer. “I’m concerned that the two of you would disappear together.”

Nobody in the group had time to form a response to that, because Natasha reached out and tapped the spacebar on the keyboard. A tiny action, almost lost in the vast realms of existence itself.

Except that particular tap triggered the computer’s queued video to play. The black darkness gave way to a pale face staring straight at the camera and speaking quickly.

Clint recognized the man immediately, even though he’d only see his face for a few moments two years ago in a trap-door basement during a rescue operation. A rescue operation to save 57 teenagers who had been dragged to this country for a sex slave trade they’d never asked to be a part of. A rescue operation where he’d lost two of his men and gained something else.

Clint would never forget that face because he’d put an arrow through it, and two seconds later the best predator he’d ever met had fallen to her knees in subservience to him.

His hand shot out to rip the headphones off Natasha’s head, but it was too late. At the first taste of her abuser’s voice, her mouth formed a shocked little “o” and she was fixated on the eyes staring out at her from the screen.

When Clint’s hand touched her, pulling off the headphones, she moved more quickly than even he had anticipated. A rough twist of her body and Clint felt something snap in his wrist. He screamed out in pain, still managing to reach out with his other hand to try and catch her by the arm.

But she was already out of his reach.


	16. Chapter 16

Clint had actually felt the fabric brush his fingertips. If he hadn’t allowed himself to hesitate at the pain in his wrist, he would have had her. But of course, he’d hesitated, just like he’d hesitated when he’d seen her handler’s face in that screen. It had taken him a moment too long to place the face.

Beyond the feeling that he got when she slipped from his grasp, the worst moment was when he thought some idiot in the room was going to try and intercept her. He could see it about to happen, one overly-eager agent stepping forward. If he made it into her path…

He hesitated just long enough for Natasha to slip into the hallway.

…she’d never forgive him.

He followed behind at a run. He’d never know it, but Coulson reached for him with the same desperation with which he’d reached for Natasha. Fingers brushed fabric in a bitter parallel, and then Clint was away down the hall.

It wasn’t technically a base emergency yet. Agents were not calm people, and this wouldn’t be the first time one had accidentally injured another. Technically, they were barely in crisis mode. By the books, everything that had happened was fixable.

Clint ran faster. Gods, why was she so fast? She couldn’t have a destination, could she? Was she moving that fast with nowhere to go?

A sharp sound of a door opening too quickly caught his attention, and he continued to rush ahead toward it. Reckless. It was painfully reminiscent of the hotel; hide-and-seek turned tag turned something that wasn’t a game at all because he absolutely had to catch her.

…she’d never forgive him.

He hit the wall on his next corner, he took it so hard. His breath was already starting to burn his lungs and he felt sick. He felt so sick, and it barely had anything to do with how he was pumping his arms and how his legs hurt with how hard he was taking each step. Madam Doina, back at his first days in the circus, would have taken his head off for his poor form alone.

...she’d never forgive him.

A half-open door that shouldn’t be open in a world of closed secrets. He nearly ate concrete when he stopped quickly enough to rebound back to it. However, since he’d then lost his momentum, he found himself hovering in the doorway.

It was an office room, chairs and computers and desks, but no people. No windows. One break in the series of disastrous events that had been the last three hundred seconds. He closed the door behind him.

With nothing to his advantage, he used the only thing he had and tried to bring her back to that day in the hotel. So many similarities, maybe one would click her back to reality.

“The itsy-bitsy spider,” he sang softly, his voice echoing in the abandoned room. “Climbed up the waterspout.”

He moved forward a few more steps and took hold of the nearest table. Its sharp edges dug into his fingers as he yanked the entire thing roughly. The metal scraped against the floor, deafening in the stillness.

“Down came the rain.” He dragged it again, readjusted his grip, and dragged again. “And washed the spider out.”

The desk finally stood firm in front of the door. Good timing, too, because heavy feet were suddenly running down the hall. He hoped they’d been sent with a no-kill order. Coulson had been there, so it was probable, but Clint wasn’t going to take any chances.

“Up came the sun, and dried up all the rain.”

He cut himself off at the first sound from her. A slight shuffle of fabric on the concrete floor. She was on the floor. He fell to his hands and knees, peering beneath the desk. They were the open kind, the kind that didn’t go all the way to the floor, so a quick glance across the room revealed her.

Clint crawled on his good hand and his knees, as though along a very narrow bridge, around the desks and chairs and cords, until he could look straight at her. He knew she knew he was there. He knew there was no way she hadn’t heard him. Even in her worst moments, her reflexes stayed intact.

“Tasha,” he called softly.

She was curled in a little ball, lying on her side underneath a desk. She had her hands up and covering her head, pulling her down into an even smaller ball. At the sound of Clint’s voice, she flinched but didn’t uncurl.

Clint almost let her wait it out. He could see the potential consequences of the options ahead of him. If he moved in too soon, he was in no condition to fight her. He’d lose, he’d die, and he didn’t doubt that she would follow behind soon after.

His plan to sit carefully out of arm’s reach buckled when she whimpered softly in the silence.

“I’m right behind you, Natasha,” he warned her. It was the only option he had at that moment, as he placed one hand, shuffled his knees, and replaced the hand. Like a three-legged puppy or something equally depressing. Honestly, he couldn’t really feel the pain in his wrist, but he knew better than to put weight on it. _That_ much was filtering through, at least.

Heaven help them both if it came to a fight.

When he came within touching distance, he steeled his nerves, and gently took the hem of the back of her shirt in his fingers. When she flinched, he flinched also, but she’d only curled herself tighter. Edging herself away from him.

Which was too bad because he wasn’t letting this one go. He’d let a lot go, especially in their first few months together, and it had bit him on the ass. This was going down on his terms, no matter the consequences.

He took a firmer hold on her shirt, and moved in a little closer.

“Natasha? Are you with me? You don’t have to come out, but I’d love it if you could say something.”

She scooted more against the wall, further from him, and he followed her the couple of inches difference. As much of her body as possible was touching the cold plaster.

“Forgive me?” he asked. The only think he could think to say. She whined in response, low and keening, so he asked again, “Forgive me? I’m sorry.”

He suddenly understood the reason she used to repeat her apology in so many languages. The concept was that important to convey to her. Just in case there was one language whose words meant more sorry than all the others.

“I’m sorry. Lo siento. Omlouvám se. Pansensya ka na.” She gasped when she realized what he was doing, throwing one arm out back behind her to scramble for…something. To cover his mouth, maybe? She didn’t turn away from the wall, though, so he kept going.

Finally, almost too quiet to hear, the word “stop” broke his litany.

He moved from holding onto the hem of her shirt to running his hands up and down her back. Up and down, up and down, until the friction numbed his skin, and he convinced himself that she’d relaxed the slightest little bit.

He changed position again, taking her by the hips so one hand was on top of her and one hand was shoved in between her and the floor, and dragged her back just a little. He ignored the pain, grateful that it wasn’t affecting his dexterity, and pulled again.

Her whole body shifted back a few inches, and she took her hands from wrapping around her head to pressing flat against the floor. Like that little bit of extra friction would keep her from moving back again.

The next few inches he pulled her got him a whimper.

The next got him, “Latrodectus.”

He jerked his hands back, overwhelmingly grateful that, whatever fucked up state of mind she was in, safewords were still a physical possibility. The relief was a wave, making its way down through his stomach and legs.

“Ok,” he promised. “Then can I climb in there with you?”

The sound she made wasn’t a full word, but it sounded like an acquiescence, so he moved in, wrapping around her in a big-spoon little-spoon matching set. They stayed like that for a long time. Long enough that the adrenaline from the moment faded, and the ache in his wrist claimed more and more of his attention.

Eventually, he moved off of her and back out from under the desk, asking, “Now what?”

She flipped over, still not moving out from under the desk, and lay on her stomach. The side of her face was pressed against the floor, and her arms were folded so her chest was on top of them. Her hair—Clint hadn’t realized how long it was getting—flopped over her forehead in a curly mess of red and spilled across the ground.

“Now nothing,” she told him. “There’s nothing.”

“Seems a little macabre.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” The answer left his lips before he could think it through, but it made him consider how he could possibly hide it from her. If it wasn’t too bad, he might be able to get away with a simple brace. Then he might be able to convince her that he’d done it to himself chasing after her.

And risk never firing a bow again.

“A little,” he amended. There wasn’t room between them for lies anyway. They were already dripping with thick blood and tainted secrets.

“Wrist?” she asked. So he wouldn’t have gotten away with it anyway.

“Yeah.” His fingers went to touch the injury gingerly, trailing along bruising skin. “Probably broken, but not very badly.”

She turned her face down into the floor and began to cry. Heaving sobs with intermixed screams that were so loud they bordered on rage. Clint wasn’t sure how she could breathe through whatever her body was doing, but he let it play out. Let her cry until she wasn’t so much sobbing as she was tearing up.

“Come on,” he urged, waving her out from under the desk. She complied, half-crawling half-dragging herself, until she could rise to wobbly knees. Clint reached to touch her tear-stained face and was surprised when she rushed to close the distance between them. She wrapped herself around him, almost knocking him over.

Her let her have her way, managing to struggle to his feet with her still on him. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, and his uninjured arm was underneath her, supporting her. Like a toddler who has fallen asleep on the couch and needs to be carried. Gently. Without waking them.

The desk at the door was a bit of struggle, but he managed with an odd combination of feet and hands. When he let go of Natasha, she just clung to him the more tightly and, while it choked him more than a little, he let him use both hands.

By the time they got all the way back to the little concrete room that the two of them had used to spend most of their time in, Clint’s phone was buzzing repeatedly with text after text. He waited until he got Natasha onto the bed, where she finally let him let her go, before he pulled it out.

_It’s fine_ , he texted Coulson back. Then he glanced at the girl on the bed just staring at him and typed out, _It’s probably gonna be fine._ _I’ll brief you later._

It stopped the barrage of messages, and he returned his focus to his girl. He kneeled down on the floor by the bed and ran his hands down her legs, hanging off the edge. He kissed her knees, one after the other.

“Bedtime?” he asked her, and she nodded after no more than a moment’s hesitation.

He stood up and pulled at the sheets, and she shifted her weight around until he could get them down without her needing to stand up.

His wrist was hurting again. But it wasn’t like they could put a cast on until the “new-break” swelling went down anyway, so he settled for grabbing a splint out of the med kit under the bed.

When she saw him tending to himself, she made a movement like she wanted to take over, but then shied away and flipped over to face the wall. Curled up on her side again. She stayed there until Clint had finished and had turned off the lights. Just as he was climbing into bed, she sat up, shoving the sheets off her, and began peeling her shirt off.

“Natasha,” Clint began, and she was shaking when he touched her.

“I want them off!” she cried, struggling all the more. She was sticky with sweat and the tight clothing was proving difficult to remove, more so the more she panicked. “I can’t have it on! I want it off, I want it off!”

She was rapidly working herself back up, so Clint hurried to help pull the clothing off. She didn’t stop until every article was in a pile on the floor. Then she returned to her little curled up ball, and let Clint slip into the bed behind her.

Her skin felt cold against him. Cold and damp, and he held his breath as he waited for her to speak in the darkness. Waiting for her to ask him to punish and hurt her. Waiting until he had to refuse, because neither of them had that in them at that moment.

But all he heard was gentle crying, quieter and more controlled than the office room, until her breathing turned from soft gasps, to rare hitches, to slow and steady sleep.

Clint thought he was going to be up all night, with the panic and the pain, but he drifted away just a few minutes after she had.

***

Waking the next morning was raw. They were stiff and sore and Clint _had_ to go to medical. He told as much to Coulson, who agreed to come and sit with Natasha while Clint did so. It wasn’t something anyone wanted her to see.

When it was just the two of them in the room, handler and agent, Coulson considered her carefully.

“Wondering how reparable the damage is?” she asked bitterly. “Weapons that backfire on their owners get tossed into cold rivers.”

“I didn’t do my research,” he told her, ignoring the vague accusation. “I never did see a picture of your original trainer, and it didn’t occur to me that they’d leave you landmines in any other form than a trigger phrase. In retrospect, I should have seen this coming. It’s what I would have done.”

She was uncomfortable with the apology. While it wasn’t the same cause for concern as it was with Clint, Coulson still hovered in her mind as “Clint’s authority” and it made her respect for him inevitable.

“It’s fine,” she told him.

“It’s really not. Natasha,” he held up a flash drive so she could see it, and her eyes locked onto it. “This is my attempt at payback. At evening the score. I owe you.”

She licked her lips in confusion, tasting the dry scratch of them across her tongue and asked, “What’s on it?”

“I’m sure you’ll find out quickly enough, but I want some promises before Clint gets back. I want you to promise me that you won’t go alone, even if it’s just Clint that you take with you. Second, you come back afterward. Whatever trouble you think you’re in for that outburst, know that it’s not the most concerning thing that’s happened in that room. Not by a long shot. You’re still more than welcome here. Third, you didn’t get this from me. No matter who asks.”

She considered him, along with all his requests. She doubted she was going to make it far without Clint, and, therefore, she supposed she’d have to come back here eventually. Clint believed in this place, and nothing seemed to shake that out of him. The third demand, however…

“I’ll tell Clint,” she said. “But no one else.”

“Good enough,” Coulson responded, and tossed her the drive.

She spent the rest of the waiting period in silence, staring down at the smooth shiny surface of the device, and wondering what it held that would make Coulson so sure she was going somewhere.

An hour or two later, she watched the file open on her laptop, while Clint looked on curiously over her shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Coordinates. Somewhere in Russia.” She tabbed through the few files that the drive had and she skimmed a few lines, confirming her suspicions. “My people. My makers.” She turned from looking at the computer to looking up at Clint. “Celine set me on a trail a few months back, one that I was hesitant to follow. This is where it leads.”

“I thought that your defection, and SHIELD’s subsequent actions, had taken care of that. I thought they were wiped out.”

“They were already on the brink of it when you took me from them, but a small section must have survived. Or, even if it wasn’t an organized section, it was enough people to keep the idea alive.” She gestured back at the screen. “This will be a new beginning if we don’t make it an end.”

Clint sighed, long and drawn out, while he considered the information.

“Ok,” he said. “Then SHIELD can—”

“SHIELD can’t do this,” she interrupted him. “I have to do this. I know how they think and where they keep their information. I have the sixth sense about them that permanent eradication will require.”

“You just want to take them down because you want to take them down. ‘I’m the only one who can do it’ is just an excuse.”

“Don’t you trust Coulson? He gave me this drive. Something he knows led him to do that, and that man doesn’t risk national security _or_ his best agents just because he feels guilty. If he gave me this, then he wanted me to go. Maybe SHIELD has a conflict of interest, or the organization isn’t doing enough to warrant the council voting for involvement. Maybe he’s already heard something from his lines that makes him concerned that this will never get off the ground.”

_Maybe he doesn’t want whatever we find there falling into anyone’s hand. Not even SHIELD’s._ But she didn’t voice that one aloud.

“Best agents?” Clint asked, raising one eyebrow.

Natasha leaned back heavily in the chair. “You don’t think so?”

“I think maybe one day.” He raised his left arm, now wrapped in a cast so white and blank that it reflected the florescent lights. “Can we wait until I get this off?”

“I’ll need a couple weeks to get a ‘boots on the ground’ plan ready. You can brush up on your Russian.”

“My Russian is just fine, thank you.”

“It’s really not,” she responded. And the way she said it was almost a laugh. It almost reached her eyes. She almost smiled.

It was a good sign.


	17. Chapter 17

In the end, Clint supposed he should have given Coulson more credit, since he turned out to have predicted the ensuing series of events before they happened. Granted, he’d helped them happen, but it was still pretty impressive.

The day after Clint had gotten his cast off, they’d moved. Armed with the coordinates and a surprising amount of determination, the two of them disappeared in broad daylight, and no one had any insight to offer.

When asked by an overly-suspicious – though not overly-concerned – Fury, Coulson shrugged and replied, “I’ve always said those two had more potential than we realized.”

Natasha didn’t feel like she had a lot of potential. She felt wrung out and sick with worry. While she did much prefer the inevitable confrontation to happen on her own terms, it didn’t change the fact that she’d rather it didn’t happen at all.

She couldn’t help but review the last years in her mind, going so far as to stretch all the way back to her last years under her former handler. She couldn’t figure out what she had done, or failed to do, that made the entire thing inevitable. Perhaps people like her just didn’t deserve to walk through their lives without this sick worry.

She thought she’d left fear behind, but it turned out it had just evolved right along with her.

She’d made Clint let her pilot. “Made” as in manipulated, not demanded. She didn’t have the energy it would have taken to disobey an order, but she knew he was still heady with the “success” of that horrible night. He had been for days, and it meant he wouldn’t want to withhold something so small as piloting.

She’d almost thrown up when he’d called it that. As though the grating feeling of snapping bones underneath his skin had been a win. As though, “it wasn’t permanent” had been an excuse.

She wondered how long she would have to wait before she could ask him for something that would hurt deeply enough. How long before she could ask without his suspecting _why_ she was asking.

Except…

That was lying, wasn’t it? That was the particular type of lying that upset him the most. The worst kind of upset, because he didn’t scream and slap, and he didn’t still and flay. He just sat there, staring at her. Vulnerable and tired and _shit when would she stop doing that to him?_

“It wasn’t a success,” she said suddenly, without preamble or explanation.

But he understood what she meant immediately. He was in the copilot seat, sitting cross-legged, and he just smiled without even looking at her.

“I know _you_ don’t think so,” he told her. Dismissive. “Don’t see why that should much matter, though. Or am I not calling the shots around here anymore?”

Warmth curled through her and this sudden reminder of her role and, for a brief moment, she couldn’t feel the memory of his bones snapping beneath her fingers.

He finally turned to her, eyeing her critically, and her heart jumped to her throat, because she recognized that face. That was the evaluation face. The face he wore when his targets were an actual challenge. The face he wore when something deserved his full attention. The face he wore when he was deciding how to take her apart.

“Just because I let you run free,” he reminded her, “doesn’t make you any less mine. Just because you’re smart enough to act on your own, don’t mean I’ll always let it be your call.”

His eyes trailed down her body, hovering at her shoulder and then her arms.

“Maybe I should write it in your skin. Remind you that you’re owned. Can you see it? ‘I am owned’ always there, in the corner of your eye, as a reminder.”

Something in the back of her mind flared a warning against going into a fight against barely-known adversaries with knife wounds across her skin. However, she was floating too high on the sound of his voice, and the image was suddenly so appealing.

He stood suddenly, and she started straight ahead through the windshield, fists in white-knuckled clenches around the controls. She could tell he had something in his right hand, even as he trailed the other down her arm. He started at her shoulder, letting his fingers run all the way down to her wrist. He stopped, tapped the edge of the sleeve a couple of times, and said, “Roll it up.”

She suddenly remembered that knife wounds came with sharp pain, but she was already obeying.

She winced at the next touch, but it was just his light fingers again. They brushed the inside of her wrist and then ran back up her arm, rubbing the thin sheen of sweat left behind by the thick fabric of her uniform and the pounding rate of her heart.

When he got to her elbow, he wrapped strong callused fingers around it, pinning her still. She held her breath, closed her eyes, and waited for the deep bite of the knife that would remind her of her place.

The feeling, when it came, was not sharp. Instead, it was a dull pressure that slid easily along her skin. She snapped her eyes open and her lips parted slightly at the sight of Clint writing across her skin…in pen?

She glanced up at him quickly, but he stayed focused on his work, although she swore his mouth twitched in amusement.

“Something else you had in mind?” he asked, and yeah, he was definitely making fun of her now.

It didn’t bother her. She leaned back in the seat, unrestrained hand resting loosely on the controls, and watched Clint mark her. It was messy and hard to read, changing from block letters to cursive to what she was pretty sure he meant to be Russian. The sloping landscape he had to work with made everything uncertain.

It didn’t matter. They both knew exactly what it said.

***

The burst of activity had been misleading. It was several days before anything happened. The smoke-and-mirrors disappearing act had been fun, but neither of them had any intention of jumping into something this serious without the proper preparation.

At least, that was the plan.

They’d holed up in a housing unit in one of Russia’s abandoned “closed cities”. The mattress was old enough to be suspicious-looking, so they both elected to sleep on the floor. And for the first couple of days, it worked wonderfully. They erected a strange and specific dynamic between them, in preparation for the inevitable showdown.

Clint spoke, and she capitulated.

They’d discussed it extensively before they’d decided on the strategy. Clint had seemed to think that stretching her newfound independence would be more effective, but Natasha was calmly and adamantly against it.

“It’s not about being independent,” she told him. “I’m already independent, even though I still have a lot of ground to cover. This is about being owned.” She ran her fingers over the ink letters on her arms. “You knew that instinctively.”

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “I want you to break free, however you need to do it, but I’d prefer for it to be for your own sake.”

“You’re not listening. This isn’t a fight over who gets to have me. That would be a fight between you and them. This is a fight about who _I_ want to have me. Who I want to be worthy of.”

It had been good enough for Clint, and they fell into low-key 24/7 dom and sub roles. Natasha sat at his feet and ate when he fed her. Clint made sure he was touching her as much as possible, and he wrapped her up in blankets at night, to ward off the cold. So many that she looked swaddled. A newborn.

Every night, he rewrote the words like a ritual.

They prepared for their move, carefully and with an intense kind of gentleness.

It didn’t matter, in the end. Natasha had wanted to fight on her own terms, and that was exactly what she was denied.

The final confrontation came to them in the middle of the night.

Natasha woke first, when she heard the footsteps in the snow where there should have been silence. She sat up with a start and Clint followed her up. He thought, for a moment, that she’d had a nightmare, and reached out a hand to comfort her.

When his fingers brushed her skin, she shuddered and whimpered, but she swung her legs out into the cold darkness.

Which was when Clint heard the footsteps, too.

It took six seconds to prepare themselves for the bitter dark filled with unknown enemies. Clint had a moment of panic when he stepped to slip into his shoes and the left one wasn’t there, but his eyes found it quickly, a half step away from where he’d expected it. He must have gotten lazy about preparing at night.

And then they were out into the dark. They fled through the back door of the housing unit and split apart. Clint prayed that she wouldn’t have to face anyone with power over her, not without him physically there, but until they knew who they were dealing with, they needed eyes in the sky.

Besides, she didn’t look like she was giving people time to talk.

He thought about checking in on the comms, but he’d been startled by her reaction to his touch in the house, and he didn’t want to break whatever headspace she’d created for herself. So he focused on scaling the highest building he could find.

The entire event, the beginning of it anyway, was oddly peaceful. The sun was about an hour away from breaking the horizon, and everything was very quiet. Clint crouched in his darkness and picked off members of the large group beneath them. Natasha got to anyone stupid enough to split from the group.

If no one was stupid enough to split from the group, she flitted her way past their line of vision, whipping them into a frenzy, and waiting for someone to get excited enough to rush ahead.

When they’d picked off about half of them, the small army regrouped at their vehicles, and Clint risked using the headset.

“Natasha?”

“I’m here. And I got a GPS off one of the bodies. At least, I think it’s a GPS.”

Which meant either a high level of incompetence, or a trap. Clint made a face, looking at the bodies strewn across the abandoned city. It honestly could be either one. He almost asked Natasha which play she thought was better, but snapped his mouth shut at the last minute. Remembering.

“You being very good,” he told her instead. “ _I_ have trouble seeing you, so I know they never did.”

He thought about it again, and decided he was tired. She was probably tired. They needed this to be over.

“Ok,” he started again. “Get your hands on a vehicle. I’ll meet you at the north side. We’ll use the GPS.”

“Yes, sir.”

He spent a moment watching her emerge from her latest hiding spot and begin working her way around to most isolated vehicle. Then he swung his legs out into space and began his descent.

***

Natasha didn’t remember most of the drive. She held the GPS loosely in one hand, angled toward Clint, so he could see it while he drove. However, mostly she just stared out the window and tried very hard not to think.

It didn’t work.

She thought about Clint and how she knew his very scent. She thought about how she could still remember her old handler’s, too. She thought about how she didn’t know what would happen in the coming hours. She thought about the way honey tastes spread across warm toast and butter.

Mostly, she thought about why she was there. She thought about Coulson and the coordinates, and the awful moment when she’d had Clint’s wrist in her hand and couldn’t remember that she didn’t want to hurt him.

Why was she here?

What had possessed her body and mine to make this trip, to purposefully encounter enemies who had that kind of power over her?

SHIELD was a massive organization, with many highly trained and competent people. She could have left this in their hands. It would have been fine. She would be in Clint’s apartment, wrapped around him. Clinging desperately.

That was it, of course. SHIELD, as competent as it was, couldn’t watch everywhere at once. If someone showed up while she slept, she didn’t know what would happen. She didn’t know if there was a moment of mental vulnerability, ingrained somewhere inside her, that would obey an order to kill him.

She was here to find out what would happen if someone told her to kill Clint, and she’d brought him along for the experience.

***

Clint didn’t know what he’d expected, but the history from the GPS took them into a town. Clint wasn’t sure what the name of it was – his Cyrillic literacy was pretty low – but it wasn’t exactly small.

Natasha pulled them over in an out-of-the-way parking lot and they took the last couple of miles on foot, leaving the GPS behind them. They walked quickly, hoods up, trying to fit in. They’d already chosen their outfits to disappear in a Russian city, back when they’d first started planning, so they don’t have to put much effort into becoming completely forgettable.

Their destination turned out to be a large office building, and they circled it once, watching who entered and left, before they entered as well. A few moments got them ID badges off people leaving the building, and then they were through the front desk security. They got in the elevators and then off on a random floor, taking themselves in circles until they found an out-of-the-way corner with no visible cameras.

He supposed that, one way or another, this was the beginning of an ending.

He hoped it would be a happy ending.

***

‘What’s your plan?” he asked her, and he could hear the slightest hesitation in his voice. As though he was frightening to speak to her. He’d been the same way over the com. She didn’t understand what it meant, but it added a sense of urgency to the situation where there’d hadn’t been one before.

Had there been one before?

She couldn’t remember, and it didn’t matter. She was here to finish a mission.

“Elevator needs a code to access the top floor,” she told him.

“Top floor it is.”

They took the staircase, because getting back on the elevator seemed too obvious, and Natasha lost herself in the pattern of flight after flight of stairs. Nothing made thigh muscles feel quite the same way that stairs did.

It grounded her. Reminded her of her own action and their consequences.

_These are stairs. This is a door. The door is locked. You need to open the door._

Her unfolding life opening before her in a series of nominative and predicate. Children’s books and the first steps in learning a new language. Everything was hazy and just a little too deep. She’d put her mind somewhere safe, which had been a good decision at the time, but she was afraid she might need it in a moment. And she wasn’t quite sure how to get it back.

“Doesn’t seem very secure,” Clint mused, and she realized she’d gotten the door open. She must have, because the wires were still in her hand.

She liked his voice. His voice grounded her better than the stairs had.

“This probably isn’t where they do their research,” she informed him. It hadn’t really been a question, but she needed him to talk more. She hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble for speaking out of turn.

“They probably keep some shell files here and use it as their cover,” she continued. “Money draws a lot of attention, and research like they did to me takes a lot of money.”

A pause then, but he didn’t say anything. He did, however, brush his hands over her shoulder on either side, and that was almost as good. Even though it did give her the urge to go to her knees.

Not the time.

She stepped through the door, using one hand to push it open, and blinked once.

Her quick analysis of the room missed nothing

The floor itself was like a penthouse. Different from the rest of the building, and yet still the same. It wasn’t an “office” but there were a few desks and a projector. A wide window covered most of one wall, and the view was breathtaking.

She imagined smug men in dark suits giving the order to rip her body and mind apart while they sipped expresso in a room like this one, and she felt a flare of…anger?

Anger. More than a flare. A deep burn that surprised her, taking her mind and focusing it on the moment at hand. It almost hurt, to come out of that drifting space so quickly, but it wasn’t a moment too soon.

Because there were five men in that room, and all of their eyes were on her. The anger was tempered by a momentary surge of personal satisfaction at the shock on their faces, and then she began her examination, even as she took her first steps toward them.

Five men, circular pattern, leaning in toward the fat man in the middle. The four were clearly body guards, thin but muscular. Tall. Side arms at the ready and comms in their ears.

The one on the far right was the smallest, she’d take him second. Which meant second-to-the-right was first. She played the movements out in her head. Snap the neck, twist around and use far-right as a human shield. Left arm would wrap around his neck, right hand would hold the run, pointing out. First she’d shoot—

Her eyes trailed over the remaining three men, and she really looked at the one in the middle for the first time. The only American in the group.

She suddenly couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t take another step, or speak, or think, and it was because she knew that man.

He’d grown fatter, and his stance was shakier than ever. His hair was greasier too, and she could suddenly remember that smell. The small of that grease right under her face.

 

_“Don’t touch me,” she shouted over her shoulder._

_She knew who this man was. He was the one that came up with the ways to hurt her. She knew there were clever people far away who invented these things, but this was the man who made them work in new ways. Because pain itself didn’t faze her much anymore._

_But his kinds of pain did. He was the man brimming with syringes and new sensations. Under his bruising grasp, her body learned new ways to speak to her, and everything it said was filled with screaming pain._

_She remembered this moment – because she knew this was a memory, there just wasn’t anything she could do to stop it – and she didn’t want it to play out._

_Her master and ordered her to stand still and face the wall. No matter what. Disobey and he would know._

_Standing still was hard._

_Standing still with this man hovering just behind her as a threat was almost impossible._

_She wanted to break free and snap bones, but knew she’d stay rooted anyway. Because anything this man might do to her would be preferable to the disappointment in His eyes when he had to punish her. He’d shake his head and roll his eyes and the fear that he’d abandon her would rush through her veins._

_So she stood still, even when she felt a deceptively gentle hand on her shoulder._

_“Tell me what this makes you feel, Natalia.”_

It made her feel numb. Watching that man turn slowly and see her. She wanted to step back, rewind, undo. But he just kept turning and she almost screamed, “Don’t see me!” before a shot rang too loudly in her ear.

She tried to turn her head, but she didn’t have the energy.

Fortunately, Clint had energy for them both. Just as it was registering that he’d shot one of the guards, he took her by the arm and _pulled_. And they were in the stairwell again. He took down another guard while they were moving.

“What do you need?” he choked out. Scared.

The answer surprised her in her own mind.

_I need to touch your face._

But she wasn’t allowed to touch him without permission. She wasn’t allowed to want…or….wasn’t allowed to have this……she wasn’t allowed to something. Something she couldn’t remember.

Or she could remember. She could remember that this was Clint. A different man than the face she’d been putting on him in her mind just a second ago.

“Sorry,” she whispered, casting her eyes down to the ground. “I guess I don’t do so well with unexpected reunions.”

And wasn’t that just the understatement of the year.

“You know that guy?” He reached his arm around the doorway and shot put a bullet through the guard who’d decided to try and rush them.

_Two to go._

“Yeah. He’s head of implementations,” she answered, and shuddered.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he took what R&D gave him and got _creative_.”

He didn’t press the issue further, electing instead to take a shot that rebound off the lamp and took out the last guard, who was literally shielding his boss with his body. The lamp fell over under the impact.

She wondered briefly if she should tell Clint that the men he was shooting where moving with a sluggish abandon that usually came with too many years of mind-altering drugs that were inexpertly applied. That they were likely brainwashed, too. Although in a different way than she had been.

Because she was recovering by piecing her mind back together. Those men had had their minds utterly destroyed.

She decided against telling him, though. It seemed like the kind of thing that would make him sad.

“Natalia?” The voice of the man echoed from where they couldn’t see, and Natasha whimpered and folded her body up, covering her ears, because –

 

_“Ok, now what about this pain? Different or the same?”_

_“Different!” she screamed. “It’s different!”_

_“Better or worse?”_

_“Worse.”_

_“Really?” he said. She could hear the frown in his voice. “Are you sure? Let’s do it again. First pain…”_

_Scream._

_“Second pain…”_

_Scream._

_“Now, which was worse? One or two?”_

_“The second one,” she gasped again. “The second one.”_

_“Interesting…”_

“Natalia, you came back to me? Like a lost bird. Perfect. So very good of you. It took you a long time, but we can always discuss that later. For now, let me be proud of you.”

She almost sunk again, mentally flailing in despair, and then Clint ran his fingers through her hair and screamed into the room, “How about you shut the fuck up!”

Her Clint. Her owner and master and lover and precious broken boy. She watched the shape of his mouth as he screamed at this man for her, and she wanted to know all the secrets behind those lips. There was a whole lifetime there that she hadn’t been a part of. She wanted to learn about it.

“Who is that man, Natalia? Someone who doesn’t know what he’s dealing with, no? Do you want to make him scream?”

It was unfortunate timing, on Easton’s part, because her body and mind were wrapped up in a momentary adoration for the man in front of her eyes, and the idea that she would hurt him was so foreign that it shattered the hazy lie that her mind had been holding her inside of.

She took a deep breath and called back, “Oh, I’ve already done that.”

Silence, while Clint smirked and the man tried to figure out what this new information meant.

“Did you bend someone to your will? That’s a new trick, little one. Where did you learn it?”

She looked down at her arm, tracing the ink letters, and then up to look straight into Clint’s eyes.

“What do you think?” she asked him quietly. Too quietly for the man in the other room to hear her. “Have I bent you to my will?”

He just looked back calmly. Wide expanding silence.

“Easton, right?” she called into the room, suddenly. “That was what they called you.”

“Natalia, you know better than to use my name.” His voice was admonishing and authoritative, trying to get her back, but it was a lost cause. His power was empty now. Her fingers were still tracing the words on her skin.

“Here’s what I’m going to do, Easton. In ten seconds, I’m going to leave this staircase, and I’m going to cross this room. Because I know you, and I know what you’re good at, and it’s not using a gun. So I’m going to move, very quickly, and you’re going to empty your clip at me. And then I’m going to be too close, and I’m going to put you on the ground. And then, I am going to bend _you_ to _my_ will.”

And then she moved.

***

Clint watched her run and slide on the soft carpet. She hit the wall with her feet and used them to change momentum and move again. He saw one bullet hit where her feet had just been, and then another where her shoulder had been.

Then she was out of his line of sight, and he heard another two shots. He moved around the corner, his own handgun raised, but it wasn’t needed. Natasha had called herself into truth. Her declarations had paved the way, and Clint was barely in time to see her duck down, feint to the left, and then leap up and over the desk Easton was crouched behind.

She had him on the ground a second after that.

Clint jogged across the room, and saw her mouth turned down.

“I miscalculated,” she said, annoyed. “He has two bullets left.”

“Well,” Clint offered, “you did warn him. He probably would have emptied the clip, like you said, if you hadn’t warned him.”

He noticed, with alarm, that she was bleeding. She’d taken a bullet through her lower left abdomen. It wasn’t midline enough to be concerning, but she was losing blood. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the sound of another gunshot.

Natasha had put a hole through the man’s leg, and he screamed in agony.

She waited until he was calmer and then bent down beside him. Clint guessed she was riding too many emotions too high to even notice the wound, so he let it go for later.

“My name is Natasha now,” she informed the man at her feet. She placed the gun against his forehead, and repeated the name slowly. “Na-ta-sha. Not Natalia. Not ‘little bird.’ Not whatever nickname you gave me in your head as you jerked yourself off to my memory. Natasha.”

“Ok, sure,” Easton whimpered. “I got it.”

“Say it. To me. Call me Natasha.”

“You’re Natasha! Natasha.”

“Good,” she said, standing slowly. And she put the final bullet through the man’s eye. Then she turned to Clint and said, “We should go.” Almost bored.

“Yeah,” he agreed, then cleared his throat and repeated, “Yeah.”

***

Clint had been right to fear security being called. It turned out to be a near thing, but they made it back down to the second to last floor before anything major showed up. Then it was just a matter of playing “swap the security card” and letting Natasha ramble in Russian.

That was the problem with having a shell company as your secret base. It had to be filled with normal people, and normal people meant panicking people. Panicking people meant excellent cover.

One fire alarm, two snapped necks, and one hot-wired vehicle later, Clint and Natasha found themselves out on the street, and then the backroads, and then the countryside. They drove in silence for a while, until Natasha pulled over to the side of the road, snow crunching underneath the tires.

“Get out so I can take a look at that wound,” he ordered. And she pushed the car door open to step out into the snow. He followed after her.

“What now?” he asked, as he walked around the car. They both knew this wasn’t the end of the organization. One man, no matter how important, hiding in the top floor of an office building was never going to be the end. But maybe, now that she’d proved herself, she could let SHIELD handle the rest. Or some of the rest, at any case.

When he reached her, she still hadn’t answered, and he let the question drop, pulling back her shirt to see the bullet hole. It was through and through, and he’d been right about it being far enough out to alleviate concern. It had torn through nothing but tissue.

Still, the bleeding had soaked her clothes and the car.

“I’ll make a bandage,” he told her, leaning into the car to grab the sweater lying on the back seat.

When he turned back around, however, she’d walked away from him and had lay down, face up in the snow. He thought, for a moment, that she’d passed out, but then she started moving her arms and legs back and forth and up and down.

Snow angel.

She was making a snow angel. A bloody one, red on white. The color spread along the snow as she moved her limbs in pattern.

“Natasha,” she announced to the sky.

Clint had given her the name, but it had only done so much. It had been a stop-gap, a safety measure in a world where there was no safety.

But now, she’d given it to herself. Christened it with blood on the lips of her enemy. She was marking it as a bloody baptism into the ground, and Clint was overwhelmed with awe. He stood in silent worship, until she stilled, satisfied with her work.

She struggled into a sitting position and looked him in the eye.

“It’s time for me to come back. Take me home.”

Clint nodded once, and she got to her feet. She took the sweater from his hands and walked around to the passenger seat, sliding in.

Clint glanced back at the angel, watching the color where the blood still seeped.

He offered up a last laudation, and then climbed into the welcoming warmth of the car.

“Home?” he confirmed.

“Home,” she answered, smile on her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, guys. This has been a long road, and I wanna thank you all for being here for it, especially [nathanielbarton](http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com/), my patient beta, and [jdrox](http://jdrox.tumblr.com/), who has been a great cheerleader.  
> I know this has been all over the place, and I think we can safely say that I have learned that I am not cut out for "posting as I go," if I want to try and keep any kind of set updating schedule. Cool experiment, not gonna try it again.  
>   
> I do have 2-3 timestamps planned for this AU, but then that'll be the end of it.  
>   
> I'm really looking forward to more stuff that I wanna do this summer (ranging from angsty torture/brainwashing to fluffy hs au), and I hope you are, too. Follow my [tumblr](http://shadesfalcon.tumblr.com/) for updates and oneshots.  
> Thank you all again.


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